Principle vs. Principal

OK, I've tried to calm down. I took a shower. I'm a little calmer. I'm more frustrated now than mad.

I have a class this semester that is driving me nuts. Theoretically, it sounds super. It's called Teaching Writing, and we talk about the different strategies to effectively teach our students to write well. Nice, diba? The problem is, my classmates are idiots. OK, not all of them are idiots. Some of them are just lazy buffoons and I have no idea why they're even teaching.

Breathe. Breathe. I'm resorting to name calling, I know this. Must. Be. Rational. Must qualify these angry feelings with logical reasons. (Must. Stop. Talking. Like Captain Kirk.)

So anyway, unlike my other Educ and Lit classes, all my classmates here are also English teachers. I had high hopes that I would engage in lively debates and discussions regarding the different paradigms we adopt in our classrooms. But alas -- oh, alack! -- my classmates are idiots severely uninformed. No, that's not it. If that were so, then I'd pity them. No, they're amazingly lazy. They're lazy thinkers, that's what.

OK, OK, back to the story: Our professor gave us a bunch of sentences to look over. The sentences were from past New York Times articles. Apparently, some of those sentences had not-so-obvious errors, and they were able to make it to the published version of the newspaper. Our task, then, was to spot those errors and correct them. (Yes, I will post those sentences in another blog post. Maybe tomorrow.) English nerds like me just love this stuff, so I pounced on those sentences with glee.

After going through those sentences on our own, we all discussed the changes we made. One of the sentences was this one:

She said that the jury had been told the principle purpose of the enterprise, as the indictment charged, was to generate money for the detectives, through legal and illegal activities.

The error in the sentence was the word "principle" -- instead, it should have been "principAL." We went on to the next sentence...when all of a sudden, one of my classmates (henceforth called she-who-started-it-all) said,

"Wait. There was nothing wrong in that sentence!"

"I know! I think there's an error with the error," said another classmate (who thought she was being oh-so-witty -- OK, I shall stop with the sarcastic name calling...).

*Mild laughter from the class.*

"No, it really should be 'principal' -- with an 'A-L,' " said the teacher.

"But they weren't even talking about a school, so how could there be a principal?" said she-who-started-it-all.

***At this point, I would like to pause to eject expletives off air. Cue the elevator music.***

Dude, pare, chong naman o...Grabe, diba??? Diba? DIBA?

DIBAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA???

"Principle is like a belief, like you what you believe in," my teacher said calmly. (Really, I didn't know how she remained so calm. I'd be sputtering my words in disbelief at this point.)

"Yeah, but principal is like, the head of the school!" said another classmate.

ANUBAAAAAH. PANGINOON, KUNIN N'YO NA PO AKO!!!

At that point, I calmly (I swear, I tried to be calm, even my seatmate, who knew how pissed I was, said she was impressed) said, "Principal means lead, head, or foremost. That's why the principal is called the principal, because he or she is the head of the school."

"Oh, I didn't know that," said she-who-started-it-all. "Well aren't you a Ms. Snooty Know-It-All?" she said half-jokingly. (See, she started with the name calling...)

*More laughter from the class.*

Breathe, just breathe. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5...Oh screw it.

It's no use...here it is, folks. Brace yourselves:
No, I wasn't being snooty. I was being frikken' CORRECT. I refuse to feel bad because I was correct. I didn't tell you that you were a dumb broad and that you shouldn't be in a classroom -- although I should have. well, maybe not in those terms -- so don't call me snooty, biatch. Who do you think you are??? Why am I being called out for something that we should know! We're English teachers for crying out loud! I'd understand if there were, I dunno, Math teachers in the room. (But I'm willing to bet that my other Math teacher friends would know the difference anyway.) But this...THIS?!?! It's not like pondering on the exact value of mfing pi!!! (Wait, does such a value exist? I dunno, I'm not a Math teacher...which brings me to my point...GAAAAAH!!!)

I can't believe that people like you teach!!! And I can't believe that I was in a room full of English teachers and not a single person backed me up!!! Didn't anybody else know of this??? Am I -- the minority, the one who did not grow up in America, the one whose first language is NOT English -- am I the only one who knew this???

The fact that you are teaching and my husband cannnot is beyond unfair!!! My husband is far more intelligent, compassionate, and appreciative of our vocations as teachers!!! And he can't teach because he has no papers, but YOU can??? You awful, turdish, ludicrous woman!!! We've been in this country for so long and we can't find work because people like you are the ones these schools prefer??? ARE YOU FRIKKEN' KIDDING ME?!?!?!?!?!

My friends (McCain mode...), I apologize for my tirade. And no, I didn't say these things to her. I just tried to swallow my anger as best I could, and proceeded to yell in the car, on the way home.

But as you can see, this goes beyond her idiocy. I am angry at what she represents: I am angry at the school system, I am angry at the fact that my poor husband has been out of work all this time because of this. THIS. THIS.

I miss home. I miss my school. I miss my co-workers. I miss the gazebo. I miss my friends. I miss my friends in the gazebo who would understand my frustration and not think that I was overreacting (well, maybe they would, but they know that's how I am and they'll love me anyway). I miss my girl friends who would share my frustration, who would see that this is pain speaking, not anger. This is the pain that comes from seeing my husband being rejected over, and over, and over again because no school wants to sponsor him ("We can't at this time." BOVINE POOP.) This the pain that comes from him feeling bad when it's really not his fault. This is the pain that comes from seeing him trying to keep it together for me. And this is the pain that comes from trying to keep it together for him.

Peace out, folks. I'm too upset to close this rant with a witty remark. I'm spent. Don't worry, I'll feel better tomorrow. I just needed to let it out.

Good, and Now Back to Work: Avoiding Cynicism and Overconfidence in the Age of Obama by Tim Wise

Another entry from Tim Wise's blog.

. . . . .

Good, and Now Back to Work: Avoiding Cynicism and Overconfidence in the Age of Obama
by Tim Wise

Tonight, after Barack Obama was confirmed as the nation's president-elect, I looked in on my children, as they lay sleeping. Though they are about as politically astute as kids can be, having reached only the ages of 7 and 5, there is no way they will be able to truly appreciate what has just happened in the land they call home. They do not possess the sense of history, or indeed, even a clear understanding of what history means, so as to adequately process what happened this evening, as they slumbered. Even as our oldest cast her first grade vote for Obama in school today, and even as our youngest has become somewhat notorious for pointing to pictures of Sarah Palin on magazines and saying, "There's that crazy lady who hates polar bears," they remain, still, naive as to the nation they have inherited. They do not really understand the tortured history of this place, especially as regards race. Oh they know more than most--to live as my children makes it hard not to--but still, the magnitude of this occasion will likely not catch up to them until Barack Obama is finishing at least his first, if not his second term as president.

But that's OK. Because I know what it means, and will make sure to tell them.

And before detailing what I perceive that meaning to be (both its expansiveness and limitations) let me say this, to some of those on the left--some of my friends and longtime compatriots in the struggle for social justice--who yet insist that there is no difference between Obama and McCain, between Democrats and Republicans, between Biden and Palin: Screw you.

If you are incapable of mustering pride in this moment, and if you cannot appreciate how meaningful this day is for millions of black folks who stood in lines for up to seven hours to vote, then your cynicism has become such an encumbrance as to render you all but useless to the liberation movement. Indeed, those who cannot appreciate what has just transpired are so eaten up with nihilistic rage and hopelessness that I cannot but think that they are a waste of carbon, and actively thieving oxygen that could be put to better use by others.

This election does indeed matter. No, it is not the same as victory against the forces of injustice, and yes, Obama is a heavily compromised candidate, and yes, we will have to work hard to hold him accountable. But it matters nonetheless that he, and not the bloodthirsty bomber McCain, or the Christo-fascist, Palin, managed to emerge victorious.

Those who say it doesn't matter weren't with me on the south side of Chicago this past week, surrounded by a collection of amazing community organizers who go out and do the hard work every day of trying to help create a way out of no way for the marginalized. All of them know that an election is but a part of the solution, a tactic really, in a larger struggle of which they are a daily part; and none of them are so naive as to think that their jobs are now to become a cakewalk because of the election of Barack Obama. But all of them were looking forward to this moment. They haven't the luxury of believing in the quixotic campaigns of Dennis Kucinich, or waiting around for the Green Party to get its act together and become something other than a pathetic caricature, symbolized by the utterly irrelevant and increasingly narcissistic presence of Ralph Nader on the electoral scene. And while Cynthia McKinney remains a pivotal figure in the struggle, the party to which she was tethered this year shows no more ability to sustain movement activity than it was eight years ago, and most everyone working in oppressed communities in this nation knows it.

It's like this y'all: Jesse Jackson was weeping openly on national television. This is a man who was with Dr. King when he was murdered and he was bawling like a baby. So don't tell me this doesn't matter.

John Lewis--who had his head cracked open, has been arrested more times, and has probably spilled far more blood for the cause of justice than all the white, dreadlocked, self-proclaimed anarchists in this country combined--couldn't be more thrilled at what has happened. If he can see it, then frankly, who the hell are we not to?

Those who say this election means nothing, who insist that Obama, because he cozied up to Wall Street, or big business, is just another kind of evil no different than any other, are in serious risk of political self-immolation, and it is a burning they will richly deserve. That the victorious presidential candidate is actually a capitalist (contrary to the fevered imaginations of the right) is no more newsworthy than the fact that rain falls down and grass grows skyward. It is to be properly placed in the "no shit Sherlock," file. That anyone would think it possible for someone who didn't raise hundreds of millions of dollars to win--at this time in our history at least--only suggests that some on the left would prefer to engage politics from a place of aspirational innocence, rather than in the real world, where battles are won or lost.

So let us be clear as to what tonight meant:

It was a defeat for the right-wing echo chamber and its rhetorical stormtroopers, foremost among them Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity and Glenn Beck.

It was a defeat for the crazed mobs ever-present at McCain/Palin rallies, what with their venomous libels against Obama, their hate-addled brains spewing forth one after another racist and religiously chauvinistic calumny upon his head and those of his supporters.

It was a defeat for the internet rumor-pimps who insisted to all they could reach with a functioning e-mail address that Obama was not really a citizen. Or perhaps he was, but he was a Muslim, or perhaps not a Muslim, but probably a black supremacist, or maybe not that either, but surely the anti-christ, and most definitely a baby-killer.

It was a defeat for those who believed McCain and Palin would be delivered the victory by the hand of almighty God, because their theological and eschatological vacuity so regularly gets in the way of their ability to think. As such, it was a setback for the religious fascists in the far-right Christian community whose belief that God is on their side has always made them especially dangerous. Now, having lost, perhaps at least some of these will be forced to ponder what went wrong. If we're lucky, perhaps some will suffer the kind of crisis of faith that often prefaces a complete nervous breakdown. Either way, it's nice just to ruin their Young-Earth-Creationist-I-Have-an-Angel-on-My-Shoulder day.

It was a defeat for the demagogues who tried in so many ways to push the buttons of white racism--the old-fashioned kind, or what I call Racism 1.0--by using thinly-veiled racialized language throughout the campaign. Appeals to Joe Six-Pack, "values voters," blue-collar voters, or hockey moms, though never explicitly racialized, were transparent to all but the most obtuse, as were terms like "terrorist" when used to describe Obama. Likewise, the attempt to race-bait the economic crisis by blaming it on loans to poor folks of color through the Community Reinvestment Act, or community activists like the folks at ACORN, failed, and this matters. No, it doesn't mean that white America has rejected racism. Indeed, I have been quite deliberate for months about pointing out the way that racism 1.0 may be traded in only to be replaced by racism 2.0 (which allows whites to still view most folks of color negatively but carve out exceptions for those few who make us feel comfortable and who we see as "different"). And yet, that tonight was a drubbing for that 1.0 version of racism still matters.

And tonight was a victory for a few things too.

It was a victory for youth, and their social and political sensibilities. It was the young, casting away the politics of their parents and even grandparents, and turning the corner to a new day, perhaps naively, and too optimistic about the road from here, but nonetheless in a way that has historically almost always been good for the country. Much as youth were inspired by a relatively moderate John F. Kennedy (who was, on balance, far less progressive than Obama in many ways), and much as they then formed the frontline troops for so much of the social justice activism of the following fifteen years, so too can such a thing be forseen now. That Kennedy may have been quite restrained in his social justice sensibilities did not matter: the young people whose energy he helped unleash took things in their own direction and outgrew him rather quickly in their progression to the left.

Tonight was also a victory for the possibility of greater cross-racial alliance building. Although Obama failed to win most white votes, and although it is no doubt true that many of the whites who did vote for him nonetheless hold to any number of negative and racist stereotypes about the larger black and brown communities of this nation, it it still the case that black, brown and white worked together in this effort as they have rarely done before. And many whites who worked for Obama, precisely because they got to see, and hear, and feel the racist vitriol still animating far too many of our nation's people, will now be wiser for the experience when it comes to understanding how much more work remains to be done on the racial justice front. Let us build on that newfound knowledge, and that newfound energy, and create real white allyship with community-based leaders of color as we move forward in the years to come.

But now for the other side of things.

First and foremost, please know that none of these victories will amount to much unless we do that which needs to be done so as to turn a singular event about one man, into a true social movement (which, despite what some claim, it is not yet and has never been).

And so it is back to work. Oh yes, we can savor the moment for a while, for a few days, perhaps a week. But well before inauguration day we will need to be back on the job, in the community, in the streets, where democracy is made, demanding equity and justice in places where it hasn't been seen in decades, if ever. Because for all the talk of hope and change, there is nothing--absolutely, positively nothing--about real change that is inevitable. And hope, absent real pressure and forward motion to actualize one's dreams, is sterile and even dangerous. Hope, absent commitment is the enemy of change, capable of translating to a giving away of one's agency, to a relinquishing of the need to do more than just show up every few years and push a button or pull a lever.

This means hooking up now with the grass roots organizations in the communities where we live, prioritizing their struggles, joining and serving with their constituents, following leaders grounded in the community who are accountable not to Barack Obama, but the people who helped elect him. Let Obama follow, while the people lead, in other words.

For we who are white it means going back into our white spaces and challenging our brothers and sisters, parents, neighbors, colleagues and friends--and ourselves--on the racial biases that still too often permeate their and our lives, and making sure they know that the success of one man of color does not equate to the eradication of systemic racial inequity.

So are we ready for the heavy lifting? This was, after all, merely the warmup exercise, somewhat akin to stretching before a really long run. Or perhaps it was the first lap, but either way, now the baton has been handed to you, to us. We must not, cannot, afford to drop it. There is too much at stake.

The worst thing that could happen now would be for us to go back to sleep; to allow the cool poise of Obama's prose to lull us into slumber like the cool on the underside of the pillow. For in the light of day, when fully awake, it becomes impossible not to see the incompleteness of the task so far.

So let us begin.

Here, Here and Now: Phenomenology of Being Foreign

I wrote this for my History of Lit. Theory and Criticism class. We attended a poetry reading by noted poets Natasha Tretheway and Paul Muldoon. The experience was nothing short of wonderful. Stamp my forehead with "Paul Muldoon Fan Forever."

. . . . .

What struck me about Paul Muldoon wasn’t something he said during his poetry reading, rather, it was something that was said about him after the session. An individual (who I shall henceforth call Tom, because I simply cannot remember his name anymore) said that he was surprised to find that Muldoon was more “Americanized” than he thought he would be. Curious, I asked him to qualify what he meant with “Americanized.” Tom said Muldoon sounded Americanized, and it had something to do with his vowels. So I asked him if I sounded Americanized and he said yes. It went off-tangent from there, but I’m guessing he said that because of my consonants. No, really. I personally think that my vowels sometimes give my nationality away (that is, if my looks aren’t obvious enough). Words like “amen” I pronounce as “a-men” and not “ay-men” or “aa-men” (although I do say “po-tay-toe” and not “po-taa-toe.”) It’s a nuance that a lot of Americans miss, probably because there are so many existing accents in this country. But to my trained (read: foreign) ear, there is a perceptible difference.

I open with this little anecdote, and the sub par linguistic introspection that followed suit, because I don’t think that Muldoon is Americanized at all, at least not exactly in the way that Tom explained. I can still hear Muldoon’s distinct Irish lilt, even though I could understand every word he said (which doesn’t often seem to be the case with the other Irish people I know.) But more than whether or not Tom and I agree that Muldoon sounded American, what it more interesting is how Tom and I understand “Americanized” differently. Granted that Tom didn’t really put much thought into his notion of Americanized, I can’t help but think that what Americanized (or insert-nationality-ized) means goes beyond the superficial level of accents.

As far as I’m concerned, Muldoon isn’t Americanized because he spoke of “anseo,” Joseph Mary Plunkett Ward, pubs, and secret camps. His poems are about people, places, and memories that portray a lingering kinship with Ireland. It is not simply because he was born there, or that his father was a typical blue collar worker, or the fact that they have bad teeth because their water did not have fluoride. He is not just from Ireland, he is, and forever will be, of Ireland, the country that shaped him. Ireland begat him. Everything – from his values, his quirks, even that interestingly unique hairstyle – speaks of his Irish-ness, and his poems wonderfully reflect this.

It is difficult to wrap my mind around Muldoon’s alleged Americanized-ness. 

To this non-American-who-is-also-often-called-Americanized, the ability to speak English in such a way that Americans will find it easy to understand –- while certainly a compelling piece of evidence –- does not necessarily guarantee Americanized-ness. At least not in the sense I know. Belief and value systems trump accent, no matter how (im)perfectly American it is.

Case in point: Muldoon opened his reading with Anseo. I initially thought he meant “Anne Shaw” and I thought it was odd that they would use someone else’s name to signify their presence. This misinterpretation of this Irish term is inconsequential, and I mention it only because, if anything, it is indicative of my mild acculturation to America. On the other hand, “anseo” reveals Muldoon’s brazen Irish-ness. From being a term that he associates with his youth:

“When the master was calling the roll

At the primary school in Collegelands, 

You were meant to call back Anseo 

And raise your hand

As your name occurred.

Anseo, meaning here, here and now, 

All present and correct,

Was the first word of Irish I spoke” 

(Anseo, lines 1-8); 

To a term that signified an individual’s presence and readiness to join the efforts to stand behind the political and social ideals of their native land: 

“I last met Joseph Mary Plunkett Ward 

In a pub just over the Irish border.

He was living in the open, 

in a secret camp 

On the other side of the mountain.

He was fighting for Ireland, 

Making things happen

How every morning at parade

His volunteers would call back Anseo

And raise their hands

As their names occurred” (29-35, 39-42).

“Here, here and now” becomes something more than a signifier of presence in school. It becomes a statement of belief, of readiness, of willingness to remain in the fight for what Ward and his companions believe. Muldoon, in one poem (in three stanzas!!!), was able to evoke the nostalgia of childhood, the emerging identity of a rebellious youth, and the passionate dedication of a citizen who understands his role in his society. That Muldoon can go through these stages, with accuracy and conciseness, is sheer genius. This is absolute, unadulterated, unabashed admiration speaking, but I can say this also because these stages resonate with me. I am a citizen of a country where people still die if they are on the wrong side of the political fence, a country whose ideals are slowly be eaten away by colonial mentality, a country so far away. I, too, am reminded of days when the most important thing about being in school was, well, being in school. I also remember how school allowed me to become more politically and socially aware. I remember going to my first protest in my Catholic school uniform and my enthusiastic participation in EDSA 2. I remember those days as I look at my own frustrations at being here, so far away from home, not knowing enough but wanting to do something; knowing so much, but not being able to do anything. If anything, the frustration at being here and the yearning to go back shall forever keep me from fully embracing the notion that I, too, am Americanized.

This is precisely why I cannot accept the idea of Muldoon being Americanized. His poems speak too much about Ireland, and even when they do not directly speak of Ireland, I hear it being spoken. His poems begin with something seemingly mundane, but by the end of the poem, I am left feeling raw. I am reminded that I am also a transplant, trying desperately to deal with this new society.

In The Sightseers, Muldoon, yet again, takes his readers on a journey from the mundane to the poignant. The poem describes a benign childhood memory that is coupled with political strife. What begins as a simple ride to see the new roundabout ends with a painful memory that is distinctly Irish.

“Uncle Pat was telling us how the B-Specials 

had stopped him one night somewhere near Ballygawley 

and smashed his bicycle 

and made him sing the Sash and curse the Pope of Rome. 

They held a pistol so hard against his forehead 

there was still the mark of an O when he got home”

(The Sightseers, lines 9-14)

His words are simple yet descriptive. The flippant way he describes that memory -– culminating in an O-mark on a forehead -– does not belie the gravity of what had happened. The O-mark, a reminder of the horrendous experience of being at the business end of a gun, is also the reminder that he is alive. Things could have been much worse than having a ridiculous O on the forehead.

Yes, Muldoon has spent a good portion of his adult life in a foreign country but this does not take away from his Irish-ness. Juxtaposition almost always accentuates one because of its difference from the other. If it’s any indication, I never really felt this Filipino -– whatever that means -– back home. I am now proudly, adamantly, and almost-brattily Filipino and mostly because I live, not just in America, but in West Michigan. As far as racial juxtapositions go, I think I’m all set. In perhaps the same way, Muldoon’s presence in America underscores his Irish-ness, and while his English has become more understandable to Americans, it certainly does not take away from his Irish-ness.

Yes, I am well aware of the tone of defensiveness. Tom actually made a good point, and the reason he gave is one that is shared by many Americans I have met since moving here. And here lies the rub: if I were to acknowledge that Muldoon is Americanized, then I have to acknowledge that I, too, have become Americanized. And that is something that I simply cannot do –- must not do -– because my guilt will have none of it. I simply cannot declare myself Americanized, because I am still too Filipino at heart, others’ opinions of my accent notwithstanding.

National pride and national identity do not figure in a zero-sum equation with quasi-acculturation. This I know, and I keep telling myself that it’s OK to be here, that I can fight for my country from here, that I will eventually go back home. But to be back home, to be with my people…there is no way I can explain how exponentially better that would be. Instead, this is a statement of inequality, where my Filipino-ness will always -– always -– be greater than my alleged American accent.

“Here, here and now” then becomes a phrase that is painfully beautiful and beautifully painful to me in so many levels because I am here. Not there. My “here” has changed. My “there” has changed. But my accent does not determine my Filipino-ness and neither does my location. So I may be here now, but I will be there soon enough.