Be Here Now

     Lucy wrote a blog post a few days ago for the EUIP blog about the Hollywood House mantra for the year: "Be Here Now."  And with less than a month left in LA, it seems more appropriate than ever to keep reminding ourselves what this year was, no IS, about.

     But it's difficult when you're in the middle of a transitional year not to think about where your life is headed.  Isn't that exactly part of why we all signed up for this year anyway?  A year of discernment, questioning, figuring it all out.  However, given a variety of factors that I'm not sure anyone saw coming, the program year didn't play out in the way a lot of people expected.  I can't speak for all the houses, but in Hollywood, from Day 1 everyone's schedules were jam-packed (shocker, living in LA), for the greater part of the year roommate-time was down to about two exhausted waking hours a day if we all ended up at home in the evenings, and weeks flew by with little sign of a reprieve. 
    Toward the spring, everyone started to worry, sometimes visibly, about what the coming months, and years, might hold.  We were all making plans and decisions, and not just about whether or not to head to the beach over the weekend (let's be honest, that was never really a question for us anyway), I'm talking big life-changing decisions, the kind that after they're made you feel a thousand times lighter, as though you might just float away. 
     And THAT'S when the "Be Here Now" mantra came in handy for me.  I've had a million (only a slight exaggeration) decisions to make in the last few months, most of which drew the greater part of my thoughts, dreams, and hopes away from the West Coast.  (I'll be moving to DC in less than a month to start a graduate program.)  And this thing that we keep saying to ourselves in Hollywood, be here now, has been one of the ways that I keep reminding myself to stay engaged and connected to the community I have here, to this place I've recently started catching myself referring to as home. 
    Despite the schedules and the seemingly nonexistent time to figure our lives out, discernment, and eventually decisions, bubbled up through every empty space in our go, go, go Hollywood lifestyles.  And now that most of those decisions are made and we can all float away if we so choose, I know my Hollywood girls will continue to live out and into our community, to be here now.

The Story of a Lifetime

     Have you ever read any of Gabriel Garcia Marquez's 100 Years of Solitude?  I started to read it last summer, and actually never finished the entirety of it.  It required patience and resolve that I just didn't have at the time.  The story spans, as its title indicates, one hundred years in one family.  You see generation after generation of complexity, and Marquez captures the magic and the myth that gets passed down from one to the next.  He is a brilliant storyteller. 
     For many reasons I have been thinking recently a great deal about stories and how they function in our lives and in our culture, personal and public narrative if you will (with a wink to fellow ESCers).  What is my life story?  What will it amount to?  Will it have all the structurally sound elements - strong plot with clear conflict, resolution, and character development?  What about a theme - will my story have a moral? 
     I'm not sure at this point what my story is or where it's going.  It's hard to analyze the theme when you're in the middle of the book.  I do think I have settled on one thing though, which is that I don't see myself as the author.  I'm leaving that job up to the Big Man.  His stories are far more magnificent than I could ever write, so I'm fine with letting Him tell His story through me. 
     I can feel an argument about agency coming, so without trying to get into a debate, I will only say that allowing God to write your story is a choice.  It is agency.  I choose to see my life as part of a story told by God to his creation, and it certainly takes a great deal of courage to hand over the pen.

I AM

     I was talking with a friend today about the passage "I am the way, and the truth, and the life." (John 14:6).  We were discussing the idea of a personal transformation that can be lived out every day, and I was led to think about a film I saw recently.  It is called I AM, and it is by a director named Tom Shadyac.  The film is rooted in the idea of personal transformation that can go on to change the world. 
     Here is a description of just that from the film's website:

...while he does explore what’s wrong with the world, the film’s overwhelming emphasis is focused on what we can do to make it better.  Watching I AM is ultimately, for many, a transformative experience, yet Shadyac is reluctant to give specific steps for viewers who have been energized by the film.  “What can I do?” “I get asked that a lot,” he says.  “But the solution begins with a deeper transformation that must occur in each of us.  I AM isn’t as much about what you can do, as who you can be.  And from that transformation of being, action will naturally follow.”

A Night Already Devoid of Stars

      Yesterday, after watching Americans flock to public spaces in celebration of Osama bin Laden's death, I posted a quote from Proverbs on my Facebook page: "Do not rejoice when your enemy falls, And do not let your heart be glad when he stumbles. Proverbs 24:17"  A friend took issue with my post, saying that it was a judgmental use of scripture against those who would celebrate.


     I sent him an email, some of which said:
     It (my post) was intended, rather, as a reminder to be wary of our actions, both outward displays and also the inner actions of our hearts.  The fear and anger inspired by the (9/11) attacks, though justified, have been identified with one man.  That's what worries me most.  Osama bin Laden has been turned into an object of fear and hate (in much the same way that America has been objectified by al-Qaeda to represent vanity and excess), and I take issue with the objectification of any person, no matter the evil they may have committed. Objectification dehumanizes both parties, the one who has been objectified and the one doing the objectification. 

     What's more, if you take a look at what some of the families of victims are saying, this event brings no closure for them.  One more man's death does not bring a beloved family member back.  It doesn't rebuild the towers.  (And in my opinion it still doesn't justify ten years of war.) 

     Revenge is a childish reaction, as is taking joy in it, and for this reason I cannot say I am surprised that most of the revelers last night were college students.  It is much harder, but much more adult, to choose the path of forgiveness and mercy.  I am disappointed, yet not surprised, to see our country once again represented to the world as one of childish reactionary impulses. 

Can You Help Me Now

Amos Lee, ladies and gentlemen.

Working Catholic

Rather than writing a huge post about where God is in my life right now, I'm giving you a link to this New York Times article about Dorothy Day.  If I'm ever confused about where God might be in my life at the moment, I find it helpful to turn to the stories of those people whose lives were undoubtedly touched by God.

Dirty Foreheads

     Every Ash Wednesday, I am always led to contemplate just why Catholics (and Episcopalians as I found out) come crawling out of the woodwork, even and especially those who don't practice during the rest of the year, to attend a religious service during which we literally smear dirt over our foreheads.  What is the appeal?
     Why are we so enthralled and compelled to get dirty?  Is it because it's one of the days that you get to take something away from Church?  (Let's remember that the other day that the church-going population spawns, aside from Christmas and Easter, is Palm Sunday, the day when we get to take home a few palm fronds.  Give the people free things, and they will come to your service.)   Or is it to show that we belong to the cool religious club?  To brag silently that we are better than the heathen we pass during the day who don't share our ashen marking and smugly nod to those of our brothers who do?
     There was a meditation in the Lenten Magnificat on Ash Wednesday entitled "Actors."  It reads:

It takes someone who knows and loves art to know how sad it is to cheat oneself by only pretending to know and love art.  It is the same with God.  Jesus is not angry with the Pharisees for their practices of prayer, alms giving, and fasting.  He is angry and sad because they are content to take their practices as evidence that they have genuine knowledge of his Father.  They are actors who have forgotten that they are playing a part.

I think the point is that the outward symbol of a smudge of ash on our foreheads is not actually meant for outside observers.  That smudge of ash on my forehead is not for the other people I encounter in the day - it is for me, a symbol of my own mortality and weakness.  If we go into the Ash Wednesday services, and the Lenten season for that matter, with a spirit of showmanship, i.e. look at all the fasting I'm doing, look at how holy I am, we're going in for the wrong reasons.  This season is an intensely personal time to reflect on our own lives and how they might become better. 

A Change of P(l)ace

From Terrier to Cardinal?

     After a few weeks of wondering whether or not I had somehow failed in my quest to obtain a Masters degree, I just received word yesterday that I have been admitted to Catholic University.  I celebrated with Megan and a glass of wine.  I'm still waiting to hear back from the University of Pittsburgh, but it feels nice to have a door open after so many windows have recently shut. 
     The news forces the question though - am I ready to haul out to Washington DC after just one measly year in Los Angeles?  Maybe it's time for another change of pace - away from the frenetic rush of teaching middle school 55 hours a week, and back into the steady churn of higher education.  The theoretical side of my brain has begun to atrophy.
     In any case, I now find myself with more than a few options.  Washington DC, Los Angeles, maybe Pittsburgh, and I have been considering moving to France to teach English.  I had been wondering what the right choice might be, and how to begin making that decision.  I have friends in all of those cities and a million external reasons to choose each place, so I wasn't sure how I would begin to make that choice.  Recently though, I had a few doors slam in my face - perfect timing really - so it seems that God is helping me to make this discernment about me.  I have a habit of making decisions based on other people rather than for myself, but I think this next year is clearly going to be about what I need. 

Bioethics

     Amid my recent apprehensions about the mind numbing pace of technological advances (go read the Time article about the singularity, and you'll know what I mean), a priest's homily gave me some perspective.  He told a joke.

     There were some biomedical engineers working in a lab, and one day after years of grueling work, they finally announced that they had developed a technique that allowed them to create life.  God came to them and said, "So you think you've found the secret, do you?"
"Yes, we now have the technology to create life.  Your services are no longer needed."
"Ok, prove it."
So they began mixing some mud and water together.
"What do you think you're doing?" asked God.
"We're creating life.  This is the first step," said the scientists petulantly.
"Ok well where'd you get the mud from?  That's my mud.  Get your own materials."

From the City of Angels to the City of Sin

     I'm getting ready to go on an a weekend trip to check off a few more states on my list.  I'm going to visit my aunt in Las Vegas for a few days, and we're taking a side trip to the Hoover Dam and the Grand Canyon.  Check and check! 
     As I'm packing and cleaning before leaving, I'm thinking about the monikers we give to our cities and what significance they might have. 

LA - City of Angels
NYC - Empire City
Vegas - City of Sin
Pittsburgh - Steel City
Detroit - Motor City
Chicago - Windy City

    What truth do they hold about the people who live there and/or the people that pass through?  It makes me giggle a little to think that the City of Sin lies in such close proximity to the City of Angels.  Perfect for those weekend getaways to blow off steam.  We've created something of a sacred geography in this country that fascinates me endlessly.
     I've never actually visited Las Vegas before, and I'm trying to withhold judgment, but I've a sneaking suspicion that it won't be my very favorite of the great American cities.  I guess I'll be looking to see what kind of things God is up to in Sin City, or if there's room for Him at all.  It very well might be that because that city needs Him the most, I might unexpectedly find His work in the cracks between the concrete. 

Attitude is Everything

     This snippet came from the Sunday bulletin at the Catholic Church I've been going to:

Be kinder than necessary, for everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle.
Live simply, love generously, care deeply, speak kindly, and pray continually.
Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass... it's about learning to dance in the rain.  It's not what you gather, but what you scatter that tells what kind of life you have lived. 
Life is too short to wake up with regrets.
Love the people who treat you right, and pray for the ones who don't.

Not One Crumb Shall Go To Waste

     Uncharacteristically I made a rather impulsive buying decision last week.  Only about an hour after learning from one of my roommates that Amos Lee was playing at The Music Box, I walked the half a block and bought myself a ticket.  Now I'm not usually one to spend money unplanned, but I couldn't pass this concert up. 
     I went alone, and stood by myself as note after note floated from the stage and drenched the room in American-sounding harmonies.  His newly released album called Mission Bell made up the majority of the songs during the night.  I was surprised that so many of the songs were about God.  One song is even unabashedly called "Jesus."  I was even more surprised when the entire audience got into it.  It's got a strong beat and sounds something like an African spiritual.  And people danced.  They loved it.     
     I don't really have anything profound to say about the concert experience except that I found it refreshing that new music can be both creative and spiritual.  Recently it has seemed like you have to sacrifice one or the other - musical innovation or spirituality.  I was pleasantly surprised and delighted to find that they are not mutually exclusive. 
   

Are You Willing to Dream Again?

Those Who Persecute You

     Last Sunday we had an intern gathering at the Hollywood house.  My roomies and I were each asked to lead a small Bible study with the others in attendance.  Having led a million of these in the past thanks to four years spent in the BU Catholic Center community, I of course had no qualms about it.  My group had a great discussion.  All four interns participated and shared views despite our differences.  We were practically finishing each other's sentences by the end of the short 25 minutes that we had.  I was super impressed with my fellow interns - this being the first real discussion I've had with anyone out here who seems to put as much thought and effort into their relationship with God as I do.
     The small group closed on a pretty awkward note however.  One of the members of the group, not one of the interns I should say, chose that particular moment to share some pretty negative sentiments toward the Catholic Church (ok, I've heard it before... this didn't surprise me too much), but she also had some rather negative things to say about Catholics in general.  These comments did surprise me - actually, "surprise" may be too light a word; "shock" may be more suitable.  She claimed that Catholics are not faithful like other Christian denominations and that we are close-minded because our Church does not accept homosexuality.  I didn't know whether to laugh at the absurdity of the claims (when is it ever valid to make such broad-sweeping generalizations?) or to defend myself and my faith (it hardly seemed like the moment or the place to get into an argument).  I took the middle ground and poked fun at her comments, to which she fired back some more antagonizing statements.  I let it go because we were running out of time, and I had to go play hostess.
     After having thought about all that transpired, I've found a bit of resentment, no... sadness, maybe even pity for this person.  Here she was claiming to be as Anglican and open-minded as they come, and yet she could not find it in herself to open her heart to her Catholic brothers and sisters.  To her, we don't know God.  To her, we prance around doing a lot of rituals, but don't understand their meanings.  And to some extent maybe she's right.  I read a study recently from the Pew Center that said that something like 70% of Catholics don't know that the eucharist is actually, truly God.  But I hardly think that these problems are limited to the Catholic Church.  I know people of all sorts of Christian denominations, some of whom talk to God on a daily basis, and some of whom look at me like I should be locked up in the crazyhouse when I start talking about the Holy Spirit.  The point is, Catholic or Anglican, Baptist or Methodist (I'm limiting myself to Christianity for now), we're all at different stages on our faith journey.  We're here to learn from each other and grow together, and I found it terribly ironic that this woman has such strong prejudices against some of her fellow Christians.  I suppose it fitting that the passage we had just read was the one from Matthew in which Jesus dispenses advice for dealing with adversity.  "Love your enemies," He says, "and pray for those who persecute you" (Matt 4:44).

City of Angels

     Upon my return to southern California, and reluctantly to work, I was greeted excitedly by the wonderful people who have become yet another family to me.  I had almost begrudgingly left Pittsburgh behind, and in fact gotten awfully sentimental about leaving my high school friends and family again.  It was something of a new experience for me, always the go-getter off on some kind of wild and crazy adventure, to feel a twinge of regret at leaving home. 
     There was a bit of apprehension building as well surrounding the notion of returning to hours upon hours of work with children who half the time pay next to no attention to a word I say.  Could I handle it again?  Did I want to handle it again?  Was I wasting my time?  Lots of these types of questions floated around my head as I sat on three different planes to get between Pittsburgh and Los Angeles. 
     However, immediately upon arrival, I was picked up by a friend who made no resentful remarks about driving the 45 minutes out of her way to come and get me after a long day at work.  In fact, the car ride was a good way for both of us to catch up and decompress from stressful days.  Shortly thereafter, I returned home and was greeted by my roommates, one of whom actually made dinner for me.  Thanks Al!  What a lovely gesture that made my heart smile.  I was frazzled and had a million things on my mind as always, and the last thing I wanted to think about was scrounging up something tasty to eat.  I was perfectly ready to settle for bagged baby carrots and some Ramen noodles, but instead I was treated to a yummy poached egg in marinara sauce. 
     Today I reluctantly returned to work.  Right off the bat, even before I got there, one of my coworkers had to come and give me a ride, which she did without hesitation.  She was happy to see me, she said at 5:45 this morning.  One friendly face asked me if I was excited to be back at work, and I chuckled and said, "Debatable. Ask me at the end of the day."  Everyone laughed.  Throughout the day I was greeted by several coworkers with cries of "Welcome back!" or "Good to see you!"  One of my students walked into the classroom, flung her arms around me, and yelled, "Ms. D!  I missed you!  How was your break?!"  Later in the day, several students came to me to share stories about break and to rehash our inside jokes.  I was somewhat shocked that they were genuinely happy to see me.  Oh God, I thought at the end of the day, I may actually love my job.  Despite the day-to-day crazy and the ridiculous hours, this many good vibes just don't happen in every workplace. 
     Another coworker turned real friend gave me a ride home, and we ended up sitting in the car for another forty minutes catching up from the break.  You know, I had heard that people call LA the city of angels, but I hadn't figured out until now that the moniker doesn't refer to any superabundance of golden cherubs that flit about the city.  I have only to look to the wonderful people who surround me to find that this city really is full of angels. 

La Inmaculada Concepcion

     I had another Catholic moment tonight, as my roommates term my habitual inclination toward the sacraments.  This week has actually been something of a doozy - mass on Sunday night, Advent reconciliation service on Monday, and mass for the Feast of the Immaculate Conception today.  Tonight I was reminded again of the global reach of the Church as the mass was celebrated in Spanish.
     Mary, our mother, unites the Church on Earth and gives us hope of heaven - her purity invites our own.  As the mother of Jesus and Queen of the Church, she knows the heart of God better than any other human, and in this season of Advent, as the year draws to a close, we are reminded of the perfection of which humankind is capable.  As mother of humanity, she unites us in the Church, and nowhere is the global reach of the Church more apparent than in the mass where different languages and cultures meet in joy and harmony.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us!"
Pray, O Mother, for all of us.
Pray for humanity for those who suffers poverty and injustice,
violence and hatred, terror and war.
Help us to contemplate with the rosary
the mysteries of Him who "is our peace",
so that we will all feel involved
in a persevering dedication of service to peace.
Look with special attention
upon the land in which you gave birth to Jesus,
a land that you loved together with Him,
and that is still so sorely tried today.
Pray for us, Mother of hope!
"Give us days of peace, watch over our way.
Let us see your Son as we rejoice in heaven". Amen!  
-Pope John Paul II 

A Voice Crying in the Desert

Prepare ye the way of the Lord,
make straight his paths.

     Our brother, John the Baptist, brings us news of the one who will come to set the world ablaze with the fire the Holy Spirit.  His voice echoes in the desert of our hearts during this Advent season.  A whole year has passed, and during its course our hearts (or my heart anyway) have been weighed down by a year's worth of frustrated plans, incessant worry, and exhausting heartache.  Today's readings bring hope that the light of Christ can come into even the darkest places of our hearts.  Advent is the perfect time of year to examine where our lives have brought us in the past 12 months, what we have learned, what we have gained, and what needs to be left behind.  John the Baptist invites us to prepare the way in our hearts for Jesus to enter in.  We get the next few weeks to clear out everything that will keep the light of God from entering into (and from shining out from within) our hearts.  For me, Advent is all about finding the dark places where God wants to shine His light and waiting with a joyful hope for the Holy Spirit to breathe fire back into my life and make new those things that have been worn out in the past year. 

On that day, a shoot shall sprout from the stump of Jesse,
and from his roots a bud shall blossom.
The spirit of the LORD shall rest upon him:
a spirit of wisdom and of understanding,
a spirit of counsel and of strength,
a spirit of knowledge and of fear of the LORD,
and his delight shall be the fear of the LORD.
                                                                          Isaiah 11:1-2

Wisdom from the Desert

     Happy Giving Thanks Day!  Given that it costs nearly $600 to fly back and forth between LA and Pittsburgh around Thanksgiving, and given my monthly income of $400, I decided to spend Turkey Day with a bunch of hippies in the desert. 

The RVs and trailers of Slab City

     Logical, right?
     Maybe not.  But enlightening nonetheless.  The idea was born from my dear friend Amy, who had to do her final photo project during the holiday week and had heard about this hippie community living close to the Salton Sea in a place known to outsiders as Slab City and to residents affectionately as The Slabs.  The slabs consists of old concrete... slabs... apparently left over from a World War II military testing site.  The concrete serves many functions now - as stages, as a place to park an RV, or as a place to set up a community kitchen and serve a Thanksgiving banquet.

The library at Slab City

     We met a whole host of characters, and, I have to say, I felt like I had walked into a very bizarre indie film.  You can't write half the stuff these people said to us.  I was quite fond of a man who looked like he had walked off the set of Lawrence of Arabia.  He towered over everyone else (must have been close to 6'5") and wore a headdress type fabrication made out of something that looked like old pillowcases.  He rode in quite majestically on a donkey, and a pack mule followed shortly behind.  I, of course, jumped at the opportunity to ride the donkey whose name I found out was Rock and Roll.  As I sat atop Rock and Roll, I asked Lawrence about how and why he came to Slab City.  It seems he had spent the majority of his adult life riding horses around the United States, going from place to place.  Evidently he rode one right across the Mexican border and back without ever stopping at a crossing.  As he was getting older (my best guess was late 50s or early 60s), he decided that it was time to try to find a home, to settle down and do some homesteading, as he called it. 

One of the trailers in The Slabs

     It dawned on me later that I had finally met my very own American Don Quixote.  Here I thought my own life would take a rather quixotic turn upon moving to the Gold Coast, and it seems that I found Don Quixote in the desert - on a donkey, no less.  He invited us to come back and ride with him around Christmas.  I might well take him up on that offer. 
     As we were about to leave, we went on the round of goodbyes, and were held up by a woman called Mama Lizzie.  She's been living at Slab City for the past 8 years (most people just pass through for a few months here and there), probably has a diagnosable mental disorder and if not definitely has a drug induced disorder, and she decided that we should hear her life story before departing.  We couldn't leave the desert without some wisdom.  As she was babbling on and on about where she came from and how she came to live in the middle of nowhere, she said something that, again, you just can't write.  "Most people came out to the desert to die," she said, "but I came out here to live."

Laughter Works Miracles

     This week has been kind of rough with the kiddos.  It's that critical point in the school year when the students have gotten too comfortable with the teachers and staff, and feel like it's alright to run around screaming in the hallways despite repeated reminders that they shouldn't.
     I'm also running into the problem that I want to give and give and give to my students, which is why I am teaching French lessons after school, teaching a theatre class and giving special coaching sessions to advanced students, running a Green Team in which I am teaching students about ecology and environmental science, and running a Cooking and Culture club in which I teach students about different world cultures through food and language.  Oh, and I'm building a library by soliciting and collecting donations from local bookstores since my school has no library.  I'm also serving as a mentor for many of the students who don't feel comfortable talking to their teachers about personal issues.  On top of all of that our special education learning center isn't working - so I'm taking it on myself to fix it since no one else seems to want to step up to the plate.  I took over teaching 7th grade math today, and made the students a progress calendar.  All three of my 7th graders learned two-step equations today.  (And I learned that evidently I can teach math.) 
     I'm getting burnt out.  A little stressed with all the things that I'm trying to accomplish for my kids, and a little high strung about how to handle some sticky situations.  I've been trying to keep setting aside quiet time for prayer and contemplation, but it's quickly becoming another item on my long to-do list.  So I've been getting frustrated with that too.  Lots of running around in circles it seems, and not much getting anywhere.  More frustration piles on.  Are you sensing the pattern??
     Today though, I was in History with my 6th graders, and we were learning about Khufu, the pharaoh who build the Great Pyramid of Giza, and my little special ed student turned to me and tugged on my shirt and said, "Ms. D, Ms. D."  He then proceeded to start singing "Little Bunny Foo Foo" as he copied his notes.  I chuckled to myself.  And then he told me that "Fufu is a rapper too you know."  At this point I started cracking up.  It might not seem all that hilarious, but when this kid can barely pay attention in most classes without throwing pencils at the wall or drawing on my shirt, it made my heart giggle to hear him associate his class work with prior knowledge.  He and I then spent the rest of the class period giggling in the back of the room.  I gave up the corrective tone, I gave up trying to get him to "be a scholar" and laughed with him.
     It was the best medicine that my soul could have asked for.

On my knees in the night / sayin prayers in the street light

They say I got ta learn, but nobody's here to teach me,
If they cant understand it, how can they reach me?
I guess they can't; I guess they won't
I guess they front; that's why I know my life is outta luck, fool!
- Coolio, "Gangsta's Paradise"

      I wonder sometimes how effective I'm being with my kids.  I don't want to fail them when they've been failed by so many people around them.  I don't want to be another person who just doesn't get it.  Some of my kids today were using chalk on their backpacks and drawing symbols that were ostensibly crosses hanging from a chain.  I had to ask them to stop because they're not supposed to have any symbols or writing on anything they wear or bring to school.  They didn't know why.  A particularly cheeky 8th grader spouted "Why, Miss D?  I believe in God.  Can't I show that I believe in God?"
     Part of me wanted to pat the kid on the back and tell him of course, but technically his backback was breaking school policy (which is in place to prevent gang related symbols from cropping up), and God knows I didn't want to get into a sociological discussion with an 8th grader about the similarities (and differences) between gangs and religious groups in their use of symbols.
     I get caught up in these internal dilemmas every day, and I worry that I'm not saying what I should be in order to break through the tough shells on my kids.  They've certainly been hardened by the cold reality of gangs and poverty.  I feel responsible though to help turn them from that path.
     Thinking about it, I'm beginning to wonder if it's possible to get through to the kids unless I meet them where they are.  They don't need another teacher condescending and correcting them all the time.  They need someone who's going to be there with them, be on their team, however the prophet Amos spelled it out long ago: "Do two walk together, unless they have agreed to meet?" (3:3).  I've got to find a way to agree to walk with them, and not worry so much about how much farther there is to go.