“To open yourself up to need, longing, dependency, and reliance on others means opening yourself to the truth that none of us can do this on our own. We really do need each other, just as we need parents and teachers. We need all those people in our lives who make us feel so uncertain. Our practice is not about finally getting to a place where we are going to escape all that but about creating a container that allows us to be more and more human, to feel more and more.”
– Barry Magid

So grateful to have a “container” by which I can exist in – because that means I am still breathing. However, what kind of world am I creating for myself. My upbringing was all about outer appearances, and the success of my life was measured not on the relations between people, but rather the external products of home, family and work. For my upbringing, creating a “shangra la container” was external not internal. My mother was obsessed with the material. My father worked seven days a week to make this material world possible. Their children, me and my three sisters, measured our success based on our material/social gains. For me, I dropped out rather early in this endeavor, but never really shook the idea of the material world. I struggled in so many ways.

The materialism inherent in building a home and hearth where I feel a sense of solitude and safety has always been precarious. Smoke Rise in the 1960’s and 1970’s existed as the ultimate community built upon corporate materialist ideals – gated mansions, three car garages, acreage, private social facilities for tennis, swimming and horseback riding, cocktail parties every night, community country club like celebrations, and a censored association where only the “right” people could build. This exclusive homesteading provided CEO’s of the 1970’s a refuge from the outside world to protect their values and ideals, and perpetuate the great “have’s” mentality. Overtime, the ‘haves’ and the ‘haves not’ became glaringly all to clear.

My parents, although never overtly saying so, consistently referred to “others” and their problems as those without solid moral values – something unamerican. Dad would infer those “people” (the socially other side of the tracks people, urban racial communities, unions or ungrateful immigrants) either took from the system, or were not grateful of the opportunities our American government and businesses offered. For my parents, the “others” were always the problem.

Although I never engaged in direct conversation with Mom and Dad about these problems while growing up, I sat, saw, and listened to their commentary, and then assessed my take on social conditions based on my ground up perspective. Conversations sat behind me, while I watched TV in our family Den during the Walter Cronkite news, or the Huntley Brinkley Hour. All to well, this child understood their slurs, as judgmental fears trying to figure out the causes of riots and social unrest splayed across the screen. My parent’s solutions to the social decay always blamed those “have nots” and glorified their opinions with Neo-conservative rants from their large black leather chairs they occupied nightly, while the children sat obediently on the floor in front of them looking innocently up to the screen. Although my sisters quickly became disinterested in the news and moved to either their bedrooms or the piano, I always remained there. While watching the TV images, and examining each move and attempt by reporters to seek objectivity, my parent’s commentary between each other carried on to help narrate the program.

Every once in a while I would turn to see their angered faces at the shape of the world they strove to isolate themselves from in their “ivory towered” village. Growing up within this dynamic eventually wore at my sense of identity. The chaotic early 1970’s only brought more insecurity, thus more volatility and blame. Looking for the scape goat preoccupied my parents, and made me feel for the underdog more. I saw myself as the underdog, the social miscreant – that which was not loved by society but scorned by it. Why I was the only child who did not adopt my parents mindset I do not know. I often asked, “why am I so different? Why me?” My first answer, and the one that stuck until the end run, blamed them and judged their intelligence – they were not evolved enough to understand the mutual relationships between groups. By judging the very essence between intelligence and place, I put them in a box on a shelf, and began to remove myself from their rooms, quickly becoming the odd child out, often missing from the dinner table. After years of watching and listening to those conversations, my assessment of our mutual dependency between parent and child, turned to a desperate individualism on my part. Eventually, I saw myself as the “have not,” and the world I was living within, that place of property and prestige, could no longer serve my sentimentality. So I ran away, first emotionally, then physically.

Running into the arms of substances that could not talk back, I sought to a new form of mutual dependency, the other side of midnight different from the world I was running from. Substances, the quest to find them, and the world they lived within, became my new dependency – my higher power. Each time these substances visited, they were like family loving me – my heart’s euphoria as a distorted perception of love. My substances loved me and needed me as much as I needed them, and they became the world away from the world I longed to forget. The people who provided the substances became the parents to my needy child. Together, we were the “have nots,” the forgotten, the blight society created from its unreachable materialism. We all marched as one.

Youth has resilience as long as the young can stay alive, and my tolerance for pain was great. I survived the near death experiences in a world that sought to steal my breadth. Eventually my idealism, my pink cloud, gave way to living on the daily edges of death. As other’s witnessed my decay, they were forced to look within themselves and ask, “How did this happen in our family?” This question plagued my materialist father, and in his desperation to find an answer, he took desperate measures to do whatever was necessary to save his child.

In an instant, the doors locked behind me. This clinical institution, which required insurances or hard cash to get a bed, provided a haven for me to face who I had become. My parent’s love, beyond the material, allowed me to surrender in a weakened moment. The padded rooms did not change my fears or potential capabilities, rather they provided a means to come to a decision about what I could become – the ideal me. In the moments when the doors locked behind me, I had a choice. Although the material world had to save the material child because that is it’s purpose, the child must choose their place within that world – to either go on to the bitter end – jails, institutions and death – or to find a new way to live. Mutual dependency became a necessity – of quest of finding a place to create a container that would allow me to be more and more human, to feel more and more a part of something good.

My interview with Dusty Miller, the principal of the Museum school in 2007, was one of those moments where I saw myself – assessed my thoughts, decisions and desires – as we weaved in and out of resume and conversation. I had recently resigned from a post at Harrison high school – a difficult post that challenged not only my principles of teaching, but my desire to work with more academically motivated students. This school was not a good fit for teachers who want to teach because they wanted teachers who allow students and parents to rule their classrooms.
So Dusty asked me what I would like to have the kids walk away with from my course. With this one question, a monologue unfolded. In an intuitive instant, the principle values of my second life’s (second career) work had to be summed up, and then gracefully spit out.

So starting with good intentions, I began to dexterously paint a picture of a classroom of lessons that would help young people not feel so mis-directed in a chaotic world – to feel they can find a right path – a safe place to express their viewpoint, while building self esteem through their process of learning those needed skills for success (reading and writing!!).

Dusty nodded politely, which encouraged me to continue ‘I hoped to build a place where students walk away with a sense of their lives in a real world context of war, depressions and famine, as well as the joys when wrongs in history are made right.’ Then in the blink of an eye, the honest thought/desire of what I want from my students flashed across my brain screen and illuminated => Obedience, discipline, curiosity, fearlessness, passion, and an interest in the story history gives us.

For me, the events we cover in my courses, are made personal. Nothing is arbitrary. Each study becomes a window into the human condition. For example today we were examining the Black Plague and I just finished a lesson on the economic impacts. While I was writing the characteristics of the post-plague economy, I was overcome by the similarities to the Great Depression and the 2008 economic crisis – history providing a means to understanding the moment – how I see my world. If my students can feel that connection, and then apply it to their own lives, they walk away from the class changed. Examining the past is the key to having a psychic change, and for me, the key to finding my right path.

As I work though feelings of marginalization in my day to day consciousness, the classroom provides a forum where my consciousness can find meaning. Underneath this idealism, I want my students to be able to think logically through their passions, and to write effectively.

This blog/project, like a school paper, is hopefully telling the story, through these short clippings of prose. All the divergent events of my life coming to this moment in time. There are beginning points to different eras of being, and major turning points. As I experience the moment in any given day, I hope to somehow be able to frame that in an engaging written expression. The key element will be truth, but hoping that it clearly beats a rhythym – lyric pulse – like an actor’s story painting a scene. My biggest fear is overtly idealist dramatics and mediocrity.

Born with a disease, yet I wrestle which disease drives the other disease.
Growing up, my soul, wired after years of trying to figure out what was wrong with me, never knew what ailed its aching spirit. I only knew that I was in pain – sadness at the root of my being. Childhood years spent preoccupied with my distorted mirror image, always reflected on “why do I do what I do? Why is the moment so awkward? Why fat? Why no follow through? Why am I so afraid? Why do I always dream about being somebody else? Seven year olds should not be asking these questions. I did.

For years I believed that I was born bad – a seed that never developed right. A young person stammering their way into things, and saw the world from a different tree top. When I tried to follow, initiate some project, it always seemed to fail to my expectations. With each stilted end, the I “damaged” feelings emerged. Drugs seemed to make it all right.

So I spent my days, years, lifetime, searching for rightness. Death eventually knocked at my door, while I desperately chased normalcy. It was never found. A day finally came where the end was in clear sight. The winds, the sun, the earth and the seas exposed my heart ready and willing to be taken into their care. My parents called and bought me a plane ticket. With the temptation of money, I got on the plane from San Fransisco to New York. There in lies the end of a world, and the beginning of a new one.