A Jamaican Education Revolution

What is it about a kid without a sparkle in his/her eyes that grabs your heart and pulls at it it so strongly? What is it about children who’ve lost their laughs that makes us so incredibly sad? Do cynical, depressed, distressed and discouraged young people disturb you?

When you look back on your own childhood and school experience, do you ever get the feeling that even though it was not excessively negative or traumatic, it still could have been much better?

And don’t you think we owe it to the next generation to ensure that every minute spent in the classroom yields far greater results than passes in a few compulsory subjects? Don’t you think we ought to use the classroom to create a safe place for self-discovery and learning, coupled with enthusiasm and fun?

I believe that if our schools continue to educate our children along the lines that we’ve been for the last century, we will end up with a society of mostly uninnovative, monotonous conformists. I fear that we will end up with young ‘dicta-regurgitating ibots’ who resent the education process, and completely miss the value of the time they spend in the classroom.

The Statistical Institute of Jamaica reports that there are 769,239 children and youth between the ages of five to 19 in Jamaica. These are the ages between which most children start primary school and leave high school. Now if the average Jamaican child spends roughly seven hours per weekday for about 180 days each year in the classroom, that means that each child spends a total of 1,260 hours per year in the classroom. That’s a very long time – too long for us to take any chances, or get the education of the next generation wrong.

Each child brings a unique gift into the world, and the education system ought to be the place where that gift is found, exposed, developed and maximised. Instead, what we often see happening is an emphasis on memorising and regurgitating facts and figures, to the exclusion or marginalisation of other key elements of the learning process. There is also a heavy focus on academics, which often does not include theatre arts or other less conventional areas of study.

This month, for example, two of Jamaica’s most popular primary-school examinations became the subject of national debates. The Grade Four Literacy Test (GFLT) and the Grade Six Achievement Test (GSAT) are two exams used to assess the literacy skills of our primary-school students, and their readiness to move on to secondary education.

Each year, as preparation for these exams takes place, many students find themselves pressured, burdened and agitated. Their only goal at those stages is to pass the exam; make their teachers, parents or guardians proud; and avert the shame and stigma that comes with failure, or even with near-but-not-total success.

I have seen so many young eyes filled with tears, heard shrieks of fear and disappointment and seen children literally fret themselves into sickness because they did not perform as well as they had hoped on one of these exams.

The same thing applies for the CXC Caribbean Secondary Education Certificate exam in high schools. At this stage, the exam candidates may be older and more contained in their emotions and reactions, but there is similar trepidation and disappointment when things don’t turn out the way they had planned, or hoped.

And the results we obtain annually in these exams paint a dismal picture of the effectiveness of our teaching system. Statistics from the National Progress Report on Jamaica’s Social Policy Goals (Jamaica Social Policy Evaluation, 2008) reveal that at the primary level over the 2006-2007 period, only 65 per cent of students who sat the Grade Four Literacy Test were successful in accomplishing full mastery of all the measures used to assess functional literacy. Fourteen per cent failed to master these areas at all.

At the secondary level in the same period, only 56 per cent of students allowed to sit the Caribbean Examination Council (CXC) Caribbean Secondary Education Certificate (CSEC) English language exam passed. An even more dismal 36 per cent of those entered to sit mathematics achieved passes.

What these results tell me is that something is wrong with what takes place annually in the classroom - obviously, something needs fixing. Why are our children taken through this rigorous and stressful cycle annually, only to yield less-than-satisfactory results? We’ve already tried changing the exam. It did not work. It is time to change the ENTIRE system. An education overhaul is long overdue in Jamaica!

Look at today’s schools. Think of today’s children. Do you think any of them deserves to have their hopes and dreams squelched by a system that does not recognise or embrace their unique artistic gifts or talents – a system that many argue literally sets them up for failure? Why do we keep sending our children through an obviously botched system, especially when there are ways in which the education experience can be made to be much more meaningful and fulfilling for them?

It is in the classroom, I believe, that our teachers get the opportunity every day to impart a legacy far greater than knowledge to the next generation. And it hurts me to see that opportunity squandered every day.

We don't need another barely literate and depressed generation. We need an education revolution.

This article is part of a writing assignment for Voices of Our Future a program of World Pulse that provides rigorous new media and citizen journalism training for grassroots women leaders. World Pulse lifts and unites the voices of women from some of the most unheard regions of the world.

Challenge Day 27: Mr. Torres

Mr. Miguel Romero Torres. Obviously Cuban. The name alone tells. He taught me Physics for two years - two glorious years of learning in high school.

He was strategic, very structured. Did everything step by step. Whatever we were doing was always crystal clear. If you've ever read one of those text books on how to effectively teach, you could say that was Mr. Torres, summed up. We always knew what we were studying, where in the syllabus we were, and what we would go on to next. He had an uncanny way of keeping you on your toes so that you stayed aware of the entire year's worth of lessons. Revising for his tests was easy, because each class was a new lesson, and revision!

And he was kind.

Sometimes kindness is sometimes not felt in a touch or heard in a word, but seen in the eyes, in the affectionate tilt of the head, in the patient explanation of a hard-to-grasp concept, in the silent encouragement to always do better next time.

There was no doubt that, though he never said it, Mr Torres loved his students. And wanted us all to be great.

A good teacher is not hard to find. There are many good teachers out there. But the great ones - they are rare. Like comets among the stars.

Challenge Day 13: My Love For To Kill A Mockingbird

I've always loved literature. I've always enjoyed the magic of a good book. I remember reading my sister's literature books (I was two grades behind her) and enjoying them. So, of course, by the time I was supposed to be studying those books, I knew the stories and characters very well (a tendency to read books more than once).

I remember being especially struck by Harper Lee's To Kill A Mockingbird. There's a reason that book is studied in schools all over North America - it is a brilliantly-written book. And the themes that it explores are all subjects of every day life.

I think I've read that book more than ten times. Yes. I love it that much. Everything about the book speaks to me: from the title to the last full stop. Everything about that book is strategically written and perfectly placed.

I fell in love with Scout. I saw the world through her eyes and I grew as she did. I saw Gem grappling with adolescence. Dill trying to create a world that was more palatable than the one he lived in. And Atticus. Just trying to do right and protect his children. He'd seen better days. He was too old for children. But he did his best to be the father they needed, even if he often fell short of being the father they wanted.

And Aunt Alexandria?? I bought Scout's story and had no sympathy for her as she tried to make Scout into a 'lady'. I have no sympathy for people who try to make children into something far more unapalatably and well, much less innocent. And I suppose she was trying to teach Scout the ways of the world, to make it easier for her to adapt in 'society'. But there are some pains that a child will willingly endure in order to maintain that precious part of him/herself that is just that: him//her self.

The book's resolution was dramatic and moving. No happy endings. Well, not really. Just a quiet acceptance of life's unjust moments. A realisation that while "all's well that ends well", sometimes things do not "end well", and in these instances, we learn to be "well" anyway. We grab the lessons and keep on going.

Yes. We. These books would not have had any profound effect on me had I not placed myself right there. I was there the night Boo Radley helped Scout and Jem. I saw it so vividly in my minds eye, I had to have been there. There's no way I couldn't have been there.

And when Tom was wrongfully accused, sent to prison?? When Scout couldn't understand how, in the face of what she and Jem knew was brilliantly presented evidence, the court still decided to sentence Tom to prison, I felt her pain and confusion. I couldn't understand either. It just wasn't right.

How do you read a book and not get carried away with the author? And if you don't, is it still a good book?? Can a good book keep you solidly grounded in your reality, unattached to its characters, and still have a deep impact on you?

Reading To Kill A Mockingbird those ten times (if not more, I kid you not) has never been boring. I've not gotten tired of it. The story doesn't get stale. Each time I read it, I relive the conflicts. I feel the emotions. I get carried away again. It could be because I'm a literary romantic. It could be because I have a very vivid imagination. Or it could just be because To Kill A Mockingbird is a good book. A very good book.

I'm more inclined to think it's the latter.

Death... Again.

I just found out that one of my favourite high school teachers died yesterday. Sad. Very sad.

Remember this post that I wrote as an ode to the teachers who invested quality time and energy into molding my mind and life?? Well, the Mrs Mullings I spoke of died of cancer yesterday.

I feel it in places I didn't even know I had.

I feel it in ways I can't explain or imagine.

I mean, it hurts. It really, really hurts. And I just want to cry and get mad and thump a pillow.

And after all that, I look around my sorry room and realise none of that really helps because it doesn't change the fact, the irreversible fact, that she is GONE. Gone. I don't even know what to say. And I never got the chance to say a million and one things to her that I should have said, could have said... don't know why I never said them.

Mrs. Mullings was my teacher-- my teacher. She was as precious as they come. She was a rare gem. A real beauty - inside and out. I miss her already, even though I have not seen her in years. Miss her dearly, and deeply. I almost feel wounded.

That was one of my favourite teachers. What she did for me.... what she did for me!! It was a miracle. In my life. She worked a miracle. And I will never get to say these things to her. Not in this life, anyway. Not anymore.

I've always had this grand plan in the back of my mind to one day go home and just shower my teachers with love. At this big luncheon, at a time when I would be able to adequately, truly express the depth of my appreciation to them all at once. How can I do that if, as time goes by, they all start leaving, one by one... I need a new plan. Because this one is too risky. I risk missing another opportunity to let someone special know just how special they are.

Mrs. Mullings was the wind beneath my wings for most of my high school life. The way she believed in me when I was still finding my footing, still trying to figure out who I was and where I was going, and why... the way she encouraged. When I was drowning in depression and despondency.... the way she taught, with eloquence, such grace and unparallelled clarity, the patience she had... the times I could catch her outside of class hours and get her to teach me something I missed in class all over again... the way she held on to grand hopes for ALL her students, not one, not some... she believed in ALL of US!! The way her life was well-lived, and she spent her years working small miracles in little lives everyday...

A life like that should get honorary prolongation. For being so well-spent. A life like that deserves to live on... A mind like that should have written books, thousands of books, or at least one good one, explaining the years and the experience, immortal knowledge bequeathed to the next generation. So much has left the world with Mrs. Mullings' death. So much more has left my life. It makes me tremendously sad.

Another death to deal with?? I don't know if I can handle it. Nobody told me that, in your early twenties, you start to see and feel death in a much more personal way... a warning of some kind would have been nice. I really would have liked to know so I could prepare... see, I like to be prepared. And why does it just do that - how can news like this just completely disrupt your life and your mind, and knock the wind out of you and, no matter how calmly you think you can handle it, completely take you by surprise??

I'm not liking this very much at all. I'd like to stay home from work today and just bawl. (Sadly enough, that line rhymes).

Why I'll Never Forget Ayi Kwei Armah

"What do you do when people, free to choose, choose what they want??" -Ayi Kwei Armah, The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born

I think I felt the book more than anything else, and that affinity made me appreciate it more than many other texts I'd studied. This one got me.

It's main character, the man (yes, the man - he remains nameless) experiences life in corrupt post-colonial Ghana under Nkrumah's rule. Different aspects of the man's life are affected by the corrupt politics that pervades his society: work, school, church... everywhere! (Sounds familiar?)

The book gives an allegory of people who lived in a cave and thought that was all there was to the world. Then one day, some of these people ventured outside of the cave, and realised that there was a whole other world out there to be explored. They went back to the cave and tried to explain this other world to their friends. But their friends refused to believe it. They refused to listen, and chose to remain the cave. Then Armah pops the question: What do you do? What do you do when people, free to choose, choose what they want?

Those words haunted me. I started to apply them to everything. And that was around the same time we studied Toni Morrison's 'Beloved'... and we were looking at Caribbean intellectual traditions in Caribbean Studies, and all our lovely slavery history... sometimes history can be depressing. Especially black history. We've certainly come a faaar way! I never wanna go back.

So that's how Armah's book got me. And why I'll never forget it. I mean, really: What do you do? What do you do, when people, free to choose, choose what they want.... especially when they're making the wrong choices???

My Print Class's God-Sent Song

I think everybody has a God-sent song: that song that just captures exactly what you're feeling and thinking, that paints a portrait of you so perfectly, in such unbelievably, undeniably, meticulously correct words, music, tone, pace, pitch -and everything else!- that you swear this tune was written straight from your life!

I am unwritten
Can't read my mind
I'm undefined...

My Print Class had one!! It was our anthem! We couldn't hear it anywhere without doing little jigs, bobbing our heads, humming along, smiling, and sometimes doing crazy group dances that made people look at us like we were weird. But who cared? We couldn't help it. The song just had that effect... it got us (as a group) anywhere, any day, everytime!

I'm just beginning
The pen's in my hand
Ending unplanned...

Natasha Bedingfield (and her co-writers) must have gotten special inspiration from God when she penned the words for 'Unwritten'. Either that, or she stole a chapter from our class, because that song was just sooo us!! Our class co-ordinator told us that we were the craziest group she had ever seen, and when I think about it, we did some very radical things (including getting a lecturer removed from office) while we were there.

I break tradition
Sometimes my tries
Are outside the lines...

What I remember most, though, is when we were in the Print Lab during our final semester. We would close the doors, max up the speakers on our computers, and go crazy belting out different songs together. 'Unwritten' became our class theme song. We sang it almost every day up till our last class together, because it just verbalised so very well, how we all felt going through our courses.

We've been conditioned
To not make mistakes
But I can't live that way...

It's fun screaming "release your inhibitions!!" at the top of your lungs with your friends... and then doing funky dances around the classroom, goading each other on; then the mad dash to sit in your seat and look dignified when your favourite Trini teacher comes in to ask, "what a pound??" (because, according to him, we sounded like market-people, lol), and the panting, sweating, and feeling absolutely exhilirated after getting a good work-up, eyeing each other and mimicking the funniest-looking dancers, and bursting out laughing (for no reason the teacher could think of... poor man, he had to put up with a lot, but we loved him to pieces... fun times!)We really believed in the exciting possibilities of the great unknown...

Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words
That you cannot find
Reaching for something in the distance
So close you can almost taste it
Release your inhibitions (!!!)

It's been a full year now. We recently had our first official 'class reunion'. Looking at everybody reminiscing and laughing, I couldn't help but wonder: now that some of us are still in school, others are working, and some unemployed, what will happen to us? Where will we end up 10/20 years from now, and will we still be 'releasing our inhibitions' with enthusiasm and excitement? I can't wait till our next reunion, to see where our lives go. Until then, I dedicate this post to my crazy print class, and to our favourite God-sent song:

Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in
No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins
The rest is still unwritten

The rest is still unwritten....

Love Affair With Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

-Dream Deferred by Langston Hughes

One day I'll write a poem, or an essay -a book probably- on how profound this poem is. But for now, I want to talk about the man who wrote it, and when I met him, and why I've been in love with him ever since.

I'm weird. I sometimes fall in love with dead people: authors, poets, singers, songwriters, activists, artists... maybe it's safer to love them dead than alive. I especially love African-American history. MoTown music (late 1950s onward). Martin Luther and friends (1960s). Harriet Tubman and the Underground Railroad (1859). Rosa Parks and her indispensible 'but' (1955, pun intended). The Harlem Renaissance (1920s-60s). And especially Langston Hughes.

It was sixth form literature. We studied the Harlem Renaissance, one of the most profound periods in Afro-American history, a precursor to what would soon happen in the Caribbean when we started to develop our own (recognised) intellectual traditions (1960s-70s-now?). I always think it must have been awesome to live in a period when black people were defining their own identities (not that I'd ever trade places with anyone from that time. I'm fine here and now, thank you.)

The first poem we studied was Dream Deferred. And that day, Mr. Hughes won my heart. I marvelled at the simplicity of his language: the raw potent explosiveness behind his carefully measured words. Mesmerised, I started to research his life beyond class requirements. I began to read his poems with more fervency and passion, to feel reverence for this amazing man whose words helped to transform an entire nation. I wrote a whole book of (amateur) poems just feeding off the energy from his words alone. That was the same year I came third in the country for CAPE Lit. Langston really turned me on, I tell you! (no pun intended; and I studied Ayi Kwei Armah's 'The Beautyful Ones' that year as well - another absolutely powerful piece of work!)

One thing I've learnt is that history really makes literature come alive. Whenever I get the historical context for a piece of writing, my appreciation for it multiplies hundredfold. Reading about Langston's rise from Joplin, Missouri to Harlem, New York made him real to me. If writers who are able to articulate the feelings and hopes of an entire nation/race are dangerous, then Langston Hughes was lethal. He effectively captured the frustration and depression that afflicted African-Americans in 1950.

I felt his every word, and in my mind's eye, I could see him walking on desecrated black streets, passing dilapidated shops, looking into the faces of desperate people: broken men, women and children; reading the hurt in their eyes, and wondering... "what happens to a people who have lost the will to live? What happens to a dream deferred?"

I hope to grow up soon. And when I do, I hope to be a lethal writer too. Not like Langston Hughes. Like me. But with the same kind of intensity that makes the world turn on its axis, or that makes a little girl studying in high school many generations later sit up straighter in class, and start to really pay attention... and maybe even become inspired to write a legacy of her own...

Phallus, Phallic, Phallocentric... Fallacious

The phallus is the axis around which the world revolves...

That was the scintillating topic of one of my classmates' tutorial presentations... and his presentation was every bit as juicy as expected: just dripping with references to how the 'phallus' and 'phallic' symbols pervade every aspect of our 'phallocentric' society...

I was traumatised. By the end of his presentation, I was literally numb and just plain tired of hearing the words phallus, phallocentric, phallic... I asked him to use the word penis sometimes instead, and the whole class roared. I didn't get it.

Did you know that the idea of tubed lipstick/products came from ancient Greek goddess Diana? Touching the penis to the lips was seen as a way of appeasing the fertility gods... little tubs of lip gloss/stick were later innovations, and even then, the dipping of the finger into the tub before applying it to the lips can be seen as the ritualistic dipping of the phallus into the challis...

The pen is also a phallic symbol. And toothpaste. And all your antifungal creams. Just think about it: liquid secreted from the tip of a tubular object... But that's not all. The knives and forks with which you consume your daily meals are also phallic symbols: consider the elongated, cylindrical contours, and the dipping of this phallic implement into the metaphoric 'challis', the plate. Cars, ancient historical monuments, Egyptian pyramids, obelisks, the World Trade Centers, bullets. spears, guns, Catholic candle-lighting rituals (dipping one long candle into some short, tubby ones) and even our cutesie toes and fingers, can all be regarded as phallic symbols...

Yes, I know. It certainly disturbs me too. And that is exactly what I said when his presentation was over. I suggested that maybe he looked a leetle too hard for phallic symbols in everyday society... even though his research proved that established, learned and intelligent scholars supported his claim (they thought of it first!).

At the end of the class, my summation was that his extensions of this phallocentric (or rather, phallo-eccentric) thought, was very, very disturbing, and also quite "fallacious"...

And nope. The class didn't get it.

Talk With the Self

Self,
I should start on a high note and point out that I love you in word, thought, deed and truth. Can't live without you, and that's no lie. I even have friends getting jealous and malicious because I love you so much... but such is life. I love you. I can't help it. Afer all, you're you! Who wouldn't fall in love with that? =-)

I should also say that you've been making a lot of personal progress lately. Like the way you've been getting up early in the mornings and getting more things done around the house? Fabulous. And the way you're not allowing little things to bother you, and actually having entire worry-free days? Just awesome. I love it. Cause I, for one, can't stand it when you worry.

And your self-control is coming along nicely! Remember when that same gal there open her mouth to speak nonsense in class (again), and you actually kept mum this time, and kept a straight face, even though the whole class was looking expectantly at you (cause them know you love to rebut and rebuff)?? I know it was hard, but I was so proud when you did that.

Or remember that time when that lady came to Auntie J's house and decided to pretend you didn't exist?? You actually held your tongue and managed to keep a smile on! Bra-vo. I know how trying moments like that are, and I'm really glad you're learning how to handle spiteful offense. I always say, if you can't change action, change reaction. Don't kill up yourself over them things there, self. It not worth it. This self-control will come in handy when you meet all God's wonderful variety of people in the working world... you'll see...

But, seeeelf, ah muss tell yuh! There are some things about you that are getting on my nerves. Especially the things you hide so well for so long that I think they not there any more, only to see them resurface later on... self, what is up with that?

Take today, for example. How you manage to not be happily finished with that essay when you had an entire month to do it? What happened self? I thought we were on a roll with this doing all things on time thing... how come that happened?

Self, I'm so ashamed of you for that. I seriously would give you a spanking, except it would hurt me as much as it would hurt you. How dare you jeopardise my future first class honours like that?? And then to dump all this unbelievable guilt and regret for it on me- me?!! Self, how could you betray me like that??

I really thought we were over the procrastination phase. I thought we were making progress. Perhaps we are. Now ah not so sure. Self, I really can't tell you how unnerved and just plain old frustrated I am with you today. That essay was an A essay. You could have easily handed in, not just good work, but great work. Instead, you somehow managed to watch time pass till too late, and then the maddening race against the clock...

I have to admit that you stayed calm under pressure, especially when it touched 4:45 and you knew you were working against a 5 o'clock deadline... I'm glad you didn't panic and get jittery and do something stupid. But still, self, you never had to be in that situation at all!! You could have finished this thing weeks ago and had a nice, slow, peaceful day today.

So self, hear me out: I can't handle the procrastination thing again. This is not high school. You can't get way with them things like one time (okay, maybe you can, but really, is a B/B+ good enough when you could have easily gotten an A+? Mediocrity just don't make it in my books!)

Self, step it up man! Do better. Learn from your mistakes and shape the hell up. You better not let this happen again, you hear??

I done talk.

Primary School Flashback

Grade Five: This was the same grade of the pixie accident. But that doesn't even stand out in memory like this other thing: I was a part of a group of about eight chosen to do devotions with the entire school in General Assembly. I was given a pre-scripted prayer to go home and memorise. I left the paper with the prayer at home on the morning of said devotion, and had to do an impromptu prayer (I'm a pastor's kid so to this day I think I aced that). When devotion was done, we all filed to our classrooms in lines (remember when you had to file in lines to do everything?? Even lines to go the danged bathroom!)

When Teach came in, she congratulated everybody else who did devotion, then turned to me, took the stack of test papers in her hand, and proceeded to hit me on my head with them... something about me spoiling her devotion cause I didn't read her prayer... I was a tender 9 *sniff-sniff, dabs eyes with hanky*

Now that I'm NOT nine anymore, I'm thinking of a million things I coulda done to get back at her, lol.

Chupse.

Too bad I was the silent good kid! If I could go back in time... maaaaan!! Justice would be seeeeerved... ;)

My Familiar Face

I was sitting on a bench under a tree with my laptop, trying to get some preliminary research done for my first Spanish Lit. class, when she walked by. She did a double take, stopped, turned around, and came up to me. She smiled warmly. I smiled back.

"Queens, right?" she asked.

I was puzzled at first. Then I laughed and shook my head. "No."

Now she looked puzzled, "You never went to The Queens School?" (why do Queens students always say it like that -the Queens school- like going there makes them royalty?)

I shook my head. Nope. I've never even been on the campus.

She said an embarassed sorry and started to walk away. I kinda felt bad (like I shoulda gone to Queens), and shouted after her, "If it's any consolation, this happens all the time."

And it does. Almost every.single.day. Maybe it's my resplendent come-hither-and-talk-to-me smile, maybe it's the homely aura that surrounds me, maybe it's my propensity to smile and wave at random people whether or not I know them... but there's something about me that makes people -lots of people- think they've seen me before, and feel like they just know me from somewhere.

When I first came to UWI, I thought it was funny. But as the years wore on, it got annoying, then frustrating, then, (after I met a coupla these people) disturbing; then the whole thing just became amusing. Everybody seems to know somebody who looks exactly like me.

So I've come to the (somewhat sad) conclusion that my unique face may not be so unique after all. I have a familiar face. And I guess I'll just have to live with it.

Either that, or I could convince myself that all these people want to talk to me and just don't know how else to strike up a convo :-)

Randomosity: Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da, Life Goes On...

If you did tell me I would stay away from blogger for this long, I would say you lie!

Good News:
- I finished all my assignments and I did all of them properly. What usually happens is that I concentrate so much on the first two or three big essays and presentations, that I completely neglect the others till the night before and then have to do this nasty, patch-up rush job... not this year!!!

-Boss lady was so impressed with my work that she offered me a more permanent(ish) deal, and my story comes out in the Gleaner tomorrow (update: it did!)...

-I'm employed, and I love(!!) my job...

-Mommy's here!!!

Bad News:
-I'm still in school =D

-I haven't been home to see mommy yet

-Three of my friends died in a car crash that totally incinerated their bodies in Oracabessa. I've never been hit by that many deaths so close to me at once... totally shook up, can't believe it... just can't believe it...

Life Lessons:
-Doing the right thing is hard...

-You can love someone and still want to strangle the living daylights outta them...

-Death is painful...

Where, oh where is Ruthibelle?

.......................buried under books!!

**This MIA announcement brought to you courtesy of the University of Tertiary Education in collaboration with the Ruthibelle Pursuit of Knowledge Foundation (RPKF). For more information, contact the University at 1-888-STILL-DISORGANISED or the RPKF at 1-888-TOO-MANY-ESSAYS...

To be young and in shorts!

The sight that assailed my eyes at the university today! What we call a mature student, in a white t-shirt, showing off his pot-belly and extraordinarily obtrusive navel, and -of all things- shorts!! And I don't mean jeans shorts, like what them young boys wear from time to time, or even beach shorts, I mean the primary/basic school, PE, right-under-my-behind shorts!!

This man traipsing all over campus, oblivious to the stares and giggles, speckled chicken legs and all, with his book-bag strapped over his shoulder...... oh lawd! I had to shake my head, bite my lip, and look away.

But it made me think about how popular shorts are becoming on campus. With the girls, I mean. And they keep getting shorter. The other day I saw two with their thin little strips of shorts-band-aids showing off butt-cheeks and cracks... not to mention the microscopic skirts, and sheer, sheer nylon tights!

I'm not trying to dictate what people should or should not wear to class, but this is the kinda thing that make professors complain bout student attire, the type of thing that leads to discussions bout university students wearing uniforms to classes... Why, when we have freedom, we always indulge in excess??

Ding-Bat Class?

I don't mind being misunderstood, so much as I mind being misunderstood and then ridiculed, as was the case in one of my gender classes.

It's a small class of six students. Just six of us. Five women and one man. From the first class I could see trouble: these students hardly talk. When Teach asks a question, you can hear crickets chirping. I hate those awful silences, so I talk. And sometimes I get flack for it -flack I can live with so long as we end up having lively, fruitful discussions that move the class past a boring, uncomfortable snail's pace.

But today was different. The question was whether women ever wish to be men, and why. Personally, no, I don't wish to be a man. But I understand why women would (all the other women in my class) considering the inequities that still exist in some societies, negative perceptions of childbirth, etc.

This girl, call her Curly, was presenting on the subject and said that men enjoy sex more than women. I objected: Do they really? And if they do, isn't this because we have been socialised to believe that men ought to be more sexually dominant?? She rebutted me on the basis that men are (I interpreted that to mean naturally and inherently) more sexually virile and dominant. She went on to say that men find it easier to have orgasms than women.

I argued that the only reason we think men find it so easy to live out these sexual roles is because they've been conditioned by society to do so. In another society, things would probably be different.

Enter laughter here.

I relate a tribe in Mexico where the women are the sexually dominant ones. They approach men, initiate sexual intercourse, and have much more fun with sex than the men do. In fact, the men secretly administer suppressants to these women to cool them down... I argue that if sexual aggressiveness is really a natural, in-born masculine value, wouldn't all men everywhere display the same sexual behaviour? Margaret Mead's research backs me up.

Enter laughter again.

The entire class gets on my case about it. Curly says that for men, any hole will do. I refute. This is not an absolute and I think it's important to look at the explanations behind our actions rather than just accepting the 'absolute finality' of the actions themselves.

Laughter again. Enter Ruthi getting a little pissed and annoyed.

I don't know. Maybe my point wasn't very well-made. Maybe they didn't get what I was saying, or maybe I missed what they were trying to tell me... It just annoys me, though, that instead of trying to get what I was saying or explain clearly what they were saying, they all had a laugh-fest about it.

I guess my persuasion skills need work. Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it was a classic example of miscommunication.
Or maybe I'm in a class full of ding-bats!

I Had Real Teachers

Not the archetypal zombies who do the job solely for the salary, take out domestic frustrations on unsuspecting students, live a lie everyday they step into classrooms, unknowingly committing mass murder... I mean real teachers.

Primary School. One Miss Taylor comes to mind. That woman pushed me into public speaking, encouraged me to write my two-bit poems and short-stories, even allowed me to share them with the class. Showed me off like I was her prized possession, the jewel in her crown... (in retrospect, it probably wasn't very beneficial for my classmates), but the unwavering belief in my greatness killed the shy and antisocial in me...

High School. One Mr. McKenzie. I'll never forget the day he called a few of us out of class. Told us the story of the professor who gave pearls to all his students and encouraged them to excel. Explained that while he had no pearls, he had carefully selected words...

Another Mrs. Kerr-Harvey. Gave me my first real zero... Lawd, you know I bawled down the whole school bout that! Me? Zero?! For a 5-minute late paper? I nearly died! Some days I wanted to kill her: for the first time in my life, a teacher refused to choose me (!!) or any other student for that matter, as a favourite, but doled out equal treatment to everyone... no wonder we ALL love her now.

Mistresses Wilson and Mullings. A darling pair. No they're not gay, but they've been teaching together at that school for so long that they're like the proverbial bench and batty. Always so concerned about what I was doing. And in sixth form when I slacked off and was falling into the lethal throes of depression (I was spoilt rotten and getting a rude awakening), these two queens worked really hard to pull me back into more youthful, light-hearted, yet focused ways.

University. Images of a Mrs. Spence quickly appear. "Wake up to your own power!" she daily drummed into a hall-full of women's heads. And wake up we did.

Mr. Gibbings. My Trini daddy/mentor. Sweet memories of uncensored classes; unaltered writing styles appreciated as distinctive offerings from unique individuals; archaic ideas bounced around like the fallible, questionable theories of other mortals... Empowerment through encouragement and open-mindedness... A good human being. A great teacher. Coined my favourite phrase, "What a pound?"

I had real teachers. Not this rubbish in the classroom that takes the sparkle out of kids' eyes, turns them into dull, monotonous machines regurgitating text-book edicts. Too many rules, one smart old lady told me. Too many rules that restrict action, thought, self-expression and self-realisation...

I had real teachers. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

First Years and Freshmen

I had my first class today and hallelujah! I feeel like I'm back in school... homework and reading to catch up on already! Lucky me got the last text book for a course from the bookshop-- oh yeah! No borrowing texts, or suffering through dust-induced allergy attacks from hundred-year-old library copies... But I've noticed something horrendous about myself. I'm ashamed to say it, but... I resent first years. Too cluelessly perky. And too squeaky clean: fresh faces, fresh clothes, fresh books, fresh bags, fresh money... new in every way! Hate em, hate em, hate em!

Especially the ones traipsing around like they know the ropes, or like they have a clue... Boy, don't be psst-ing at me like I'm some roadside thing, and do not turn and ogle me when I pass you in the hallway, cause that pretty little sweetie-wanna-be standing beside you is shooting me daggers with her eyes, and I ain't able. Plus, you just got here, calm your azz down!!

Overheard a group of "freshmen" talking the other day: how hot the girls at Uni are, what they wanna do with em... What??? Word of advice: get your head in your books and out of your pants, cause that's not gonna help you any! Furthermore, in time you will (hopefully) learn that:

Real men + getting laid = don't talk about it!

I honestly can't wait for the end of first sem, when they realise just how much serious work this is and how exciting it is not!! When they learn what broke and stressed means, and the shine from the shoes wear off, and the clothes have been washed a coupla times so they don't look so sharp and new anymore... It'll be harder for the con-men and rip-off artistes to spot them... I can't wait for them to get past the oohs and aahs of their first university encounter and wise the hell up!! Bad mind? Maybe, but these cats are getting on my very last nerve with their trying to play it cool.

What gets you through University is being focused and being you -the you your parents packed up and sent off with hopes that you'd at least get a pass degree and find a decent job, the you that did well enough to get accepted into this place, the you your real friends already like and trust... yeah, the uncool you. This ain't no party. This is school, and if you don't wise up soon, you'll look back and see a whole semester hopelessly gone and a new one smirking at you... Why I even care, I don't know, but everytime I see a first year dude walking with that extra bounce and dip, or some little lady swinging her hips like they're on suspenders, it irks me... I mean, damn! Did I look like that???

School Again?

Oh Lawd!! I can just feel ma belly rumbling and tumbling at the thought alone. I hafta change rhythm again... get into the school vibe, get my mind back in class-and-study mode. After this summer, and four months of non-stop working... ah not sure ah able.

I suddenly feel too old for all this, (I know, a whopping ripe old 20). Ah feel sooo tired at just the thought... oh lawd! School again.

So I made ma trek to the University today, and the weirdest thing happened when I reached the gate to go on campus. It's like some magnetic force (really more like a whole lotta fear and apprehension) was stopping me from entering. I was frozen. The people passing me musta thought I was crazy: just standing there looking on without budging, this sorry look on my face. I started to walk forward, then stopped, turned back, then turned round, started towards campus, then stopped again.

I had to think hard about it. Stepping back on campus would mean reimmersing myself into an atmosphere that had almost defeated me. Almost. The bouts of depression and panic that university life has taken me through... Lawd, ah not sure ah able. One more year of crazy scheduling and sitting through semi-interesting lectures, burning the midnight oil... alla that good stuff. One final year. One last time. I can finish my double major degree (that I really want), or punk out with a major/minor (which wouldn't be too too bad). I not sure if I want to go through alla that again...

So that leads me to the whole topic of New School Year's Resolutions.

The start of the school year is always the perfect time to get yourself back together and make some new goals, you know, recommit and refocus. My mind now running helter skelter all over the place... thoughts of text books and lecture notes and class-times and part-time jobs already running through my head... so much to think of, so much to do...

No backing out though. I'm in this for the long haul ("long haul" being exactly 1 year/the equivalent of exactly 2 semesters, and not a second more!). Life should be very interesting this year, considering all the new circumstances under which I will be toiling. I know it will all work out (I have a somewhat naive but unshakeable belief that the universe will always right itself and that God loves me specially from everybody else, lol - just ask my friends). So here I am again. Back in Uni. My last year.

Can I do it?? Yes I can. I have to. So I will.

PS Man, you should see the newbies all decked out in they Sunday best for the first days of class... Lawd you want to see them with they fresh faces and they dandy ribbons... lol. Can't wait to see those same faces halfway through first semester, round midsemesters time when all they papers due and they have a ton of exams too. That should be interesting, lol.

Primary School Flashback

Grade Three - You've heard me say I've always been the bright kid/teacher's pet/everybody's sweetheart, right? Well, this is a good example of both. In primary school, Teacher's pets get to pick out 'talkers' (i.e. make a list of the disruptive kids who move from their seats and talk loudly when the teacher is out of the classroom... basically be the informer/snitch/classmates worst nightmare, lol). I'm not too proud of it, but I was this (reprehensible) person. This one time, Teacher goes to staff meeting and, as usual, I get to pick out the 'talkers' while she's away. Weeelll, I finish my math work first (I usually do, cuz maybe I was reprehensible and what-not, but I was a li'l sparkie... just saying). So I allow some of the slower kids to copy the answers from my book. Teach comes back and catches them, starts chiding them, tells me to come get my book from them. I go over, pretend to be shocked and upset, take my book back and give it to the teacher for marking. After Teach leaves, I go back to the same kids and apologise. My little conscience was heavy that day, boy!! They didn't like me too much for a while after that either, but they eventually got over it (there are only so many kids in a class that will allow you to copy from their book)... I was a little punkette for doin' them like that, I know. But hey, I was 7! I'm groomed on congratulations, remember? Besmirching my spotless rep with Teach versus temporary hatred from classmates - that wasn't too tough a decision yo!

Grade Four: I remember the teacher beating (yes beating) another student I was sitting next to with a strap. When she moved her hand backward with the strap, it flashed across my face by mistake. Straight across my face: over my nose, under an eye, cross the mouth... the works. A nasty weal developed. Daddy showed up in school the next day (put work and alla that on hold) to find out how Teach made that error, and make sure she knew to be very-extra-uber-careful next time... (bap-bap!). Teach was extra-nice to me for the rest of that day, and maybe I used that to push the envelope a little. I was 8, and again, a little punkette, but obviously, I got it from my Daddy! *PoPs cOllAr*

Never Been Drunk

I've never been drunk. Never had heightened or weakened sensual perceptions, never been super-horny as a result of an overdose of alcohol, never seen blue birds singing in the middle of the night, never had the scandalous night out only to wake up the next morning with no recollection of where I was and what I did. Never ever been drunk.

And I've tried (this goes under the category of young and foolish). I lived for three years on the only all-girls hall at the University. Every year, we have a combined dinner with our 'brothers' from the only all-boys hall (I should tell some of the stories bout what my hall-mates did with these brothers some time...) Our Annual Dinner and After-Party. At the after-party for one of these events, I decided to give this get-drunk thing a try. I figured what the heck, I'm here with all my friends, my room is right around the corner, and there are ample guys I know and trust to carry me there should the need arise (young and foolish category, remember?). Plus, security's here a-plenty. Why not give it a shot?

So I started drinking. Straight vodka first. Several cups. I drank while dancing and what-not. I was waiting for drunkeness to set in. Nothing. Now straight vodka tastes just awful, so I start going for the mixed stuff. Several Vodka and cranberry juice. Nothing. Some cups of Appleton and some sort of soda. Nothing. White rum and pepsi (a whole heap of cups of this actually). Nothing. I felt wonderfully carefree, but I wasn't drunk.

I still knew where I was, who I was with, what I was doing... I started to get pissed. Why wasn't I drunk? So I started to just take whatever the bartender had (he found it hilarious, thought I was a little bibber). And by the end of the night, still wasn't drunk. I was outraged. I had drunk more than I ever had before in my life and much more than all my friends, who agreed I consumed a disgracefully plenty amount of alcohol, and I still wasn't drunk.

Even at the lyming that took place after the after-party (yes, university parties and after-parties usually have plenty mini after-after-parties), I still felt no signs of drunkenness, only a certain very carefree spirit. So I went to bed, even read my bible. Then I woke up. And I've always heard of hangovers, but to date I've never had one. No hangover, no overwhelmingly groggy feeling. Just red eyes, a pretty clean memory, and more than a shot of guilt for some of my carrying-ons the night before. (Jesus, forgive me.)

And that was my failed attempt to get drunk, and proof that when you young you chupid boy. Cause now I'm wondering why would I want to be drunk? What was this fascination I had with losing my faculties and possibly creating a scandal around my unblemished and veery Christian name (cause university scandals never die...)? What if I had suceeded in this 'get-drunk' quest and ended up hurting myself? Curiosity, they say, killed the cat. I'm just glad (thank God) I'm not that cat. In fact, this cat is sane, sober, wiser and very much in tact.