Chasing Grace

Grace is no longer that serendipitous moment I stumble on earnestly as I plow through my day.  I recognize its dominion, I have charted its domain, I know where it blooms.  I know where it is, how to entice it, how to embrace it when it comes.  It is no longer an elusive stranger, flirting and fleeing, leaving me with the cruel temptation to delay it.  I know grace.

I find grace in three places actually, each unique, each as bountiful as the other.  Ironically, these portals are all at the intersections of people, sometimes strangers.  I am not sure if I am a full, card-carrying misanthrope, but I have never found solace in others, never been able to share much with too many people.  The fact that the greatest feeling I know comes from the confluence of my efforts and their openness does not escape me, does not fail to raise a small, sardonic smile.

I find grace when I connect to my daughters - it doesn't happen as often as I would like, but we are working on it.  It seems I have always been a stage behind them.  I can remember when they were very young, being eager for the day they could talk, when they did, I didn't understand them.  My gruff, reserved nature did not help them bond with me, and neither were too keen to spend my free time with me out in the garage building furniture.  But now, as they have matured, we can talk.  It is easier for me to listen, and for the first time in my life, my ears are open for another purpose than to extract detail, to solve problems - I just simply enjoy their company, they are wonderful young women.  This is Ramadan, and it would be remiss if I did not thank Allah for his patience, and that which he bestowed on them. I am a very, very lucky man.

The second place I find grace is in the classroom, whether there are a hundred

of my peers, a few dozen lost teenagers, or just three kids at a friend's house in Amman.  When I teach, I reach, share, and care.  This realm is the first place I encountered grace many, many years ago.  It was in Jamaica, and I had experienced it many times, always surprising me.  I could not engender it, call it out, even sustain it once it arrived.  It was a feeling that I belonged, that I was giving for once, and receiving in direct proportion.  It was natural, and I was connected to everyone in the room - the teacher/student boundaries were gone, and we were all smiling and learning, no one of us subjected, no one of us superior, all of us as one.  My college did not prepare me for this, as a matter of fact, I did not learn to cajole it until I left those lessons of my youth, and I taught as myself, taught as a man who cared for his students more than his ego or his reputation.  I have found my way, and a balance with the expectations of my craft.  Today, the classroom is often a haven from the rest of my day, a refuge.

My final venue for grace is the newest to me - it is in prayer, often when I congregate with others.  I don't pray like I should, and I don't make it to the mosque every Friday, but I am improving.  When I pray, my mind clears, and the minutiae of the day drifts off with any pain or frustration I might be suffering.  I am praying at least twice a day regularly now, sometimes more.  I want to pray five times as I should, and I want to pray in the mosque more often.  I have prayed in many places around the world, including the Al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem on Eid, a humbling experience.  My favorite moment praying however, was on Eid a year or so ago in Amman, at the downtown mosque.  I had spent a lot of time in the crowded neighborhood around the mosque, exploring the side streets and markets.  There were video stores, clothing stores, food markets, hardware stores, and restaurants. It was a favorite spot of mine to hang out.  Oddly though, as a tourist, I mingled with thousands of people who paid no mind to me, with whom I felt no connection.  It was as if we were each alone, moving about avoiding each other.  I didn't expect the experience I had that first morning I prayed in the mosque.

As I made my way in and took off my shoes looking for a memorable spot to store them, there were hundreds of others filing in.  We all found places on the carpet, and made unique and lonely prayers.  But then as we were called to prayer, we all moved forward easily, filling every open spot without effort, and at once, we were a sea of worshippers all in unison.  Shoulder to shoulder, sole to sole, brother to brother. It was such an incredible feeling to be there, a White American ignored for who he usually was, and embraced as a brother Muslim.  No one looked at me as if I was out of place, no one looked at all - I was granted the anonymity of respect, and I never felt so connected to a group of people in my life.  We prayed in unison and I understood the affirmation of fellowship.  Not patting each other on the back, raising our voices in cheers, bellowing for attention. It was the closest I have been to my God. As we rose to leave, there were kind smiles and gentle nods as I made my way back to find my shoes.  I never felt isolated again downtown, and I am sure I smiled more often as I shopped.

Planting Seeds

I have thought a lot lately about seeds, particularly planting them. Not in a literal sense, but in a figurative, grateful way. When you teach for a living it is hard sometimes to recognize your value and the difference you make. I didn't realize this difficulty until someone asked me why I had taken up woodworking. I hadn't thought about it until that point - why woodworking? The answer came surprisingly easy, because I could see the result! It was a peculiar pleasure to put forth effort and see an immediate result. It was also clear to me that my profession did not always offer such rapid and clear feedback. This of course put me on a path to examine the fruits of my labor, the effects of a lifetime of unseen work.
I sat one afternoon and mused on my impact on the world. I knew that it was generally accepted that as a teacher, I made a difference, but how? I started to recall the feedback I received from students who had returned or who I had bumped into (physically and virtually) through the years. One very odd and poignant pattern emerged: If I could have recalled every word uttered to that student, the thing that stuck with her would not have been on my top 100 anticipated aphorisms. You never know how one word, one gentle admonition, one encouragement can impact a life. You would have to know where that human "is" at the moment of interchange to understand how your intended gesture is not only conceptualized at the moment, but incubated for later reflection as well. Students have quoted me saying things I honestly don't think I said - and I never contradict them.
Sadly, I suppose, there are also negative contributions we make to their development that we probably never hear about. I do hear about the negative impact of other teachers all the time. I am not sure we can ever be sure what we say is received and stored with the same effect as we desire, but I am sure that I can do a better job reaching more students than I currently do. My goal is to make sure there are no invisible students in any of my classes.
This past January, I was invited to deliver the keynote address at an ESL conference in Amman, Jordan. It took me a long time to develop the speech that was to be on motivating learning and learners. I didn't procrastinate, it just didn't crystallize until hours before my speech. I ended up talking about "knuckleheads, the choir, and those in the middle." It was well received.
My premise was that these were the three types of students in a classroom, and motivation was different for each group. All three are challenging, and need a distinct approach. I began with the choir - those eager students who always have their hands up, ready to participate, hanging on every word. The danger with this group is to eventually take them for granted and to ignore them for the sake of the others. How do you keep them motivated when you are constantly looking past their frenetically waved hands to the other students? I suggest that you connect with them outside of class, acknowledging them in the hallways, at lunch, in public. They can make great peer teachers if you can shift their goals from your attention to the welfare of their classmates. And finally, I think you need to find creative ways to give them the attention they desire: a note after class, asking them to assist you with some basic classroom chores, emailing if appropriate, nominating them for recognition, etc. It is truly a shame when we marginalize these students in our attempts at egalitarian education.
In my hours of contemplation, I am often most concerned for the middle group of students who escape my detection when I am about my business of teaching. They are invisible by design - they want to escape detection. They will quietly, happily let me ramble on forever mistakenly thinking everyone is on the same page. Not long ago, I decided that I would "penetrate the gloom of their anonymity!" Their silence and withdrawn affect hurt them in the long run. Yes, they weren't put on the spot and embarrassed, but they were also never challenged and rewarded. It is my contention that we have to pull them up into the sun and engage them. For after all, many of these students don't stay in the middle, they either slide in with the knuckleheads or step up to the choir. I find I have a say in this valence.
I began to recognize and interact with all of these students, from calling role to gently teasing and encouraging them. I also worked hard to reward them and to support them when they took risks. I learned everything I could about them to help them relate their world and interests to my subject matter. My few successes here were my most rewarding.
I saved the knuckleheads for last, probably because I had much more expertise there, being a CRK (contrite reformed knucklehead) myself. I also told the audience that success with this group was seldom actualized at the moment, that the best you can hope to do is plant seeds with these students that will take root later and blossom. Not a great answer for a frustrated teacher here and now. I have found that often, these students need to be challenged creatively. I have also found that I could disarm them very effectively by interacting with them graciously outside fo the classroom, one-on-one. The classroom was their battlefield, they were naked and vulnerable outside it. Most importantly, I have vowed never to give up on these students, despite the poor feedback I receive in the lifetime of my relationship with them. I have learned this lesson from the few teachers who never gave up on me - I wish I could tell them now, what those small, kind gestures eventually taught me - perhaps I will.
So, I am now in the business of "seeing" my students and planting seeds. Not always rewarding at the moment, but my soul knows the eventual reward for my efforts, and God's grace that I have always felt when things worked well comforts me in my new found patience.

My Heart

My heart must be a lonely place: I don't often let people in, and I seldom visit it myself. Now that I have been asked to do a presentation at a large ESL conference in Jordan, I am thinking a lot about my heart. I am thinking about my heart because I have realized that when I teach, I feel grace. When I teach, I am honest. When I teach, I give. And sometimes, when I teach, I let my students in. I let my students see who I really am, not afraid of the vulnerability or risk. I want to talk about this in January in Jordan, I want to share what I feel, I want to share what I do well.
If you asked me a few years ago about sharing my heart with my students, I would have had a good laugh. It has only recently dawned on me that I do reveal myself (appropriately of course) in the classroom. This realization has come, in part, through encounters with former students. I have taught thousands of students in the past 25 years, and many have made a point to touch base with me. When they do, they seldom talk about a specific thing I taught them (I will not be listed in luminous volumes of great quotations), they comment on how I helped them. I never thought I was helping them, I thought I was teaching them something specific at a specific moment. This has made me reconsider the teaching process, at least maybe the most import process - sharing myself.
There are other things that have made me consider the state of my heart recently. I have realized that there is actually a wonderful potential being an American Muslim. Being an "American" and not looking like an "Arab", I am often approached by other curious Americans. It is an opportunity to share something of my faith, and to violate some terrible stereotypes. But before I can share, I have to come to grips with the aspects of my faith that impact my heart. I suppose if I lived in a predominately Islamic country, I wouldn't have to express this to many folks, as there would be an implied consensus. That understanding doesn't exist here, and there are many very nice and genuine people who would like to gain a better depth to their knowledge and acceptance of my faith. It has caused me to open up in ways I have never done before.
I feel a peace when I pray, knowing that I have put my own needs and desires aside to pray to my God, Allah. I feel a sense of purpose when I read my Koran, understanding more and more of the lessons the Prophet Mohammed (PBUH)has laid out for me. Sometimes, I believe I was a Muslim before I converted. My actions and thoughts (particularly in the classroom)were often noble and true. I love the fact that I have to reflect on my faith and my subsequent actions; there has to be a concord. My task now is to take that presence from my classroom to the rest of my life, in the shadow of my faith. This will involve opening my heart to more people and experiences. This is my task.
So, in January, I want to share this with a group of other teachers. In this age of technology, science, and innovation, I want to return our focus for an hour or so to our hearts. To that aspect of teaching where we open up and give to our students. Where we help and by doing so are helped. A state of grace that surpasses the moment, and is indicative of a larger connection that touches us all. I have no idea how I will articulate this..............