Guerrilla Pacifist

The Day We Learned How to Solve for X

“Little Black Buddha” didn’t earn such a distinguished jail-name solely with his rotund and vertically-compressed stature; channeled through a serene demeanor, he possesses an inner calm that elevates him above an atmosphere governed by violent chaos. Quiet, respectful, and diligent, he exudes an earnestness from a wholly different era. His steadying influence on the class–including me–is so crucial that sometimes I secretly wish he would be in jail for as long as I teach. But ask the judge and he will only mention a young, violent criminal from the Bronx in need of a real lesson in jail.

Naturally, Little Buddha Man carries a bit of wisdom around the compound. Despite lacking the good sense to keep out of jail,  he is wise enough to appreciate schooling, and completes all assignments without coercion. Some student-inmates regard correctional education merely as a recess from their their living hell, but Little Buddha Man understands education as what it really is: a solution. He is eager to learn and think, and isn’t afraid to admit as much–a bold feat considering the intellectual caliber of his current social circles. More impressively, his humility allows him to relish and maximize any learning opportunity. He never pretends to know when he does not, and when I edit his writing–hacking and scribbling until it no longer resembles schoolwork but a detailed mechanical diagram drawn with overzealous red ink–he eggs on. “The more you fix, the more I’ll learn,” Little Black Buddha once tao’ed. “Bring it on, bring it ALL on.”

So I brought it. Working together,  we raised his reading score from 8th grade level to 10th grade level in just six months. However, his math scores showed no improvement. Despite months of smuggling math textbooks back to his housing area for self-study, he came up short again in the practice GED (General Educational Development) test. It was baffling to see him struggle with basic math questions. Even though I am not his math teacher, we decided to squeeze in one-on-one math tutoring whenever possible in preparation for the upcoming GED exam:

“Lil’ BB, they’re always going to ask you to solve for X in the GED math test. Do you know how?”

Motionless, his eyes exhaled, No.

“Alright. All you have to do is do whatever it takes to isolate “X” on one side of the equation. When you have “X” by itself in an equation like “X= Yada yada minus baby mama yada yada, you have the answer.”

Little Black Buddha’s eyes agreed, or blinked, or both. I couldn’t tell.

“Now, do you know how to get all the crap all one side of the equation?”

He peered past me, over towards the mountains. No.

“Ok, whatever. Let’s just try one. Look at this bad boy right here: 4X -15=45. How do we isolate X? Simple. We just cancel, cancel, cancel. We cancel shit out.

If it’s minus 15, we add 15, but remember to add to both sides because this is an EQUAtion. If it’s 4 times, we divide by four, again to both side. We just keep canceling, and canceling until only X remains. Got it?”

“X=15!”

“Yes sir, Lil’ BB. Let’s do another one, this time showing work.”

“Nah. I got this. Cake.”

“Son, you got nothing but a bad math score. Let’s kee….”

“Teach’, I got this. I know how to do this. Let’s move on, I don’t got time. Math ain’t that hard; I ain’t stupid. It’s just that all this time no one ever explained to me how to do things like formulas or this canceling shit. That’s why I always just always did whatever on the tests.”

“Whatever, dude. If that’s the case, what the hell did your high school math teacher teach?”

“I never had a math teacher in high school.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, I had like 2 periods of English, 2 periods of social studies, P.E., science, and stupid shit like that but no math.”

“Moron! You know you really screwed yourself for not knowing how to properly register for classes, you…”

“Yo! I didn’t pick my classes. That’s everyone’s schedule. Nobody had math in my school.”

“Wha-wha-wha-what?!”

“Yeah, all the math teachers either kept quitting or kept getting fired at my school. None of them lasted more than a few days. So no one ever took math in my high school. I ain’t even playing with you. It’s crazy. I took 3/12 years of high school and not one math class. Crazy. Craaaaaazy shit I tell you.”

Though unsurprising–our urban public school system has long exhausted its ability to shock with its idiocies–it’s nevertheless infuriating.  As his longtime wingman at the knowledge bar, I too begin to feel the indignation of a forgotten, invisible man.

“So, when was the last time you had a math teacher?”

“Uh….7th grade, I guess.”

Unsure to whether offer encouragement, assignment, or incitement, I keep mum and observe as his eyes return to the math workbook, in search of another math concept he couldn’t comprehend.  Little Black Buddha, like anyone growing up, thirsts deeply to learn new information in a quest to decipher and navigate his surroundings. But youthful learning isn’t a solo activity; it is a samba dance between the knowledge source and the learner in a series of give and take, communication and readjustments. Drawing an impotent dance partner with his Bronx man luck, Little Black Buddha danced alone. And as i watch him jot down way too many questions for me (and getting back some of his taxpayer money by overworking me), I couldn’t help but wonder how his world today would differ if he had learned from a more nurturing environment–namely, a school that challenged and satiated young minds. Or at least taught math.

Would he still return to the streets, or would he be in college? Does he stay up at night dreaming up countless career paths as he decides on a university major, or does he once again stay up to figure out which new inmate to fight for that extra cookie?

Education isn’t everything, but it does beacon the many exclusive life-paths otherwise unattainable by those shoved through a failed school system. Their time lost, and possibilities, once boundless, are now rigidly defined. The question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” may no longer inspire buoyed optimism but crippling diffidence. Imperceptible until too late,  an appalling school system continues to erode countless children’s right to dream, to hope.

Perhaps it was because I was unnerved by the impending Katrina of scholastic queries, I decided to incite:

“We’ve got to cancel this shit out, Little Buddha Man.”

“Huh? Which page, what number are you on?”

“I’m not doing a problem. let’s do that tomorrow. I’m talking about this effin’ no-math-since-7th-grade BS.”

“Chill, Teach’. How?”

“You tell me. You’re the math genius without a math teacher.”

“Psshh. Uh, hmm….Well I guess like you said, if you want to cancel shit, you cancel by adding to what was missing, and taking away what was too much. Until everything zeroes out. Shit like that…

And Yo! You know what? Think bout’ it: we actually kinda solved an equation today, the X being me and shit. Or maybe just my algebra skills. You feel me? We canceled out me not having a math teacher for that day. We canceled shit by adding shit to negative shit. Ya heard?”

Loud and clear, Little Black Buddha. If that’s how we can equal things out in an equation, you can be my X: Show me the variables, list the constants, and I’ll get to solving.

The Day We Learned Why I Teach

Not much can hold my interest for very long; blessed with an attention-deficit (and maturity) of a six year-old boy, my relatively short professional career is marked by instability and unfaltering randomness. In a few years, I’ve been a marketer, a designer, a filmmaker, a writer, an editor, an animal-rights activist, and even a restauranteur (one responsible for many, many animal deaths). I’ve even considered joining the FBI, and perhaps the only career I’ve never thought possible was teaching. So how is it that I ended up in a correctional education facility, teaching inmates, and thoroughly enjoying every minute of it?

I didn’t know, and whenever an old pal asks, “Why the hell are you teaching?” I give the same generic answer–about how for many years as a “content creator,” I felt a disconnect with my audience and how i longed to meet and interact with them. Well rehearsed, the default explanation for this career change is that “it was ironic to feel alienated by not being able to communicate face-to-face with audiences of my work, which often dealt with themes of modern alienation.”

But of course, my students didn’t buy such a preposterous response, and promptly showed me the truth during one social studies lesson.

Looking up at a map posted on our classroom ceiling, I challenged, “Where is Iraq?”

“There.”

“Nah, that’s Morocco,” I said. “It’s here.”

“Dayam son! How is it that they’re so far away and still hate us so bad?”

“Um,” unprepared to belly-flop into the convoluted plot that is the modern history of the middle east, I teacherly explained, “sometimes economic struggles are unfettered by geographical constraints.”

A voice boomed: “What you talking about, Teach?” QB, the resident philosopher has finally awoken from his food coma and began to enlighten, “It’s because you can teach hate, but you can only show love.”

Intrigued, and very perplexed, I fired back, “What you talking about, QB?”

“Son, listen. It’s easy to teach–and learn–hate if you’re far away from the person you’re suppose to hate; think about it: it’s easy to not like someone just because you heard from someone–friend, family, TV, radio, internet, whatever–that the person did something horrible. It doesn’t even have to be true. You hear about someone killing a cat on the news, and everyone just hate him and make him a sworn enemy. Everyone, everyone, just wants to say nasty things and maybe even punch the dude in the face. It’s like everything gets personal all of a sudden.”

He continued: “But when was the last time you heard about someone doing something good and you fell in love with the guy? When was the last time you heard a good story about someone and you start loving him like family?” Now nodding, he dared me to disagree. “You can’t teach love, son. The person has to feel it, in person.”

He’s on fire now. “No matter what good we do here in America, the people over there won’t be able to feel it. Love is like touch, you see–it’s a feeling that only works if you’re next to the dude.”

“Hate though–that works like the GPS. Anywhere, anytime. And that’s why people over there knows how to hate us but not love us. Economic yada-yada unfettered whatever constraints….psshhh…whatever, kid.”

Mouth agape, at that moment I finally understood the reason why I stand in front a room full of inmates everyday, yammering about ethics and morals. For my entire life, I’ve made it a mission to edify–through art, words, films–about the power of compassion, of empathy, of love. But I’ve been going about it the wrong way; to teach love, one must be there to kneel when someone falls, to suffer together when someone cries. The book of love cannot be lectured; it must be given, and received. QB was right: Love is like touch.

“Ok, you’re right, QB.” I walk over to the great philosopher and dutifully punch him in the arm. “You feel that? I love you, man.”

“Ouch! Man, you the only teacher–the only person–that would dare touch me.” Shaking his head, QB lets a smile leak. “Anyone else knows they’ll get knocked out. You’re crazy, son.”

Yup, he felt it.