Looking for a Master Plan

“Its not realistic…the movie Juice didn’t seem true at all.”

It was then my mouth dropped and my chair swerved around to see who would dare utter such words against the movie that introduced Tupac and Omar Epps to the acting society.  A pivotal movie in urban society, Juice portrayed young New York brothers in the midst of a 1990s life struggling for power and respect.  So of course, I was ready for a debate from this young know-nothing student of mine who would dare challenge a movie so impactful.  What fool could not understand the underlying themes and obstacles dealing with black society and self-image?  I faced him, ready to throw an educational tongue lashing out…and any good debater knows exactly how to set up their victim for a devastating fall…you ask questions, looking for holes.

“Why did it seem that Juice was an unrealistic movie?”

“Well, mostly…they were skipping school.  Was it high school?  I mean who gets all the way to high school, just not to go?  And the boy threw away his copybook!  I mean what stupid person does that?  Was there no structure?  What about the school fees?  Nope, it wasn’t real at all.”

And this is when I was shamed.  Mouth closed, head lowered, I had to explain to this young man that what he witnessed in the movie was in fact realistic.  That we in American society receive a free education and our children do not wish to take advantage of it. In fact, they run from it, fight it, ditch it, curse it, hate it, fail it, and sleep during it.  And I am a testifying witness to these actions.  All this refusal and dishonor is for a guaranteed right of education, a freedom of knowledge, and a free opportunity for success.

Yes, free.  A word that is never used out here in Africa.  In an earlier blog, I mentioned how education is a significant cost and how the system is designed, but now based upon my student’s curiosity, I pose a new question, a thought that has me twisted and confused because I don’t really know the correct answer, despite my uncalculated years of being academically sound.  Let me set this up…

See, in America every child has the RIGHT to an education.  They do not have to pay in fact they are required to go, a mandatory sentence if you may. In Africa, children beg for the chance to be schooled.  There are school age children in the street daily, just as many as adults yet education has a price and it is one they can’t afford.  So you have one country where the kids are begging to get OUT of school and another country where the kids are begging to get IN to school.

 So at what point is there a workable ground?  At what point do you get children excited about learning and not having to require them to pay for it?  Do the two actually exist harmoniously in this world? If we could put all the children in Liberia in a public school system, would in 25 years will have to deal with the same issues Chicago Public Schools must face?  Children wanting OUT when before they weren’t allowed IN?

I had a professor once throw me out of a class.  It was his fault; he asked the question, “Should schooling be a choice?” I clapped my hands and started the Holy Ghost dance because immediately knew that my classroom would change and I would only deal with students who want to learn. If it were a choice, I wouldn’t be required to teach the fools who make it difficult to learn. I could just tell them to go home, if they even show up in the first place.  It’s hard to muster up the energy to make a child want something that is a piece of paper for bragging rights, especially with platinum rims and rubber band banks out there telling them about a different life.  Now, I want to find that same professor and show him the streets of Liberia, where schools and choice are not an option and wonder his take on the question.

In what realm will students freely and eagerly engage in an education system?  

Is there an answer?  A pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?  When will students choose to be educated, willingly? And is there a price that must be paid?

To be continued…..hopefully. 

His hands reached out for me….sort of.  I mean he was dead.  Technically.  It was kind of hard to make out it with the seasoning salt, but I was positive what it was.  Enough of me reading Curious George as a young girl let me know I wasn’t a fool.  I was staring in the face (well chest) of dead monkey paw.  Well, paws.  And the arm attachment. Little monkey biceps.  In an Ali stance.  Like he died fighting for his life. 

I give the little monkey props.  He didn’t go out like no punk, I mean he fought…he didn’t want to be part of nobody’s stew and I commend that.  Because I sure as hell didn’t want to find him in mine.  And driving past the market I realized that I am and will be more than a picky eater.  I am OC. 

Dried Monkey Paw.  Nothing better to reconfirm my faith in chicken.  I am more than a believer of chicken at this point in my life, I am an advocate. A crusader, a fighter for the justice and right to eat only chicken meals.  I don’t want to discover the jungle in my rice dish…. just stick to your basic farm animals, and it all starts with the chicken.

It is the universal meat.  I mean, I haven’t been anyplace there hasn’t been chicken on the menu.  It is the “We Are the World” of foods.  During peace talks, things will work a bit smoother if they bring some chicken on the table. I haven’t seen anyone mad and eat chicken at the same time.  Chicken is the peace meat.  It is the meat of global unity. It is the dish that brings us all together sing Kumbayah.

My dedication of chicken however is lacking in one department.  It is the knowledge that I posses of how to prepare chicken.  I pretty much can fry it, and quick bake it.  That’s it. I mean, yeah, I am one of those women who had detoured around the saying “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” Its not that I can’t cook, its just that no man has slowed me down to the level where I am trying to figure out the difference between bay leaves and oregano.  I mean, do you know how many food entities I support? Why should I be so selfish to cook on my own and then do my own dishes when the dying economy needs people like me to spend money?

So this is an interactive blog.  A call if you will.  A tribute to the Chicken and all the different ways you can bake, fry, sizzle, sauté, smoother, and grease it.  I am calling for recipes.  To help me out in my dedication to chicken, help me be able to cook it in a multitude of ways.  A variety of choices for my daily dinner.  Because I am pretty much getting to a point in my life that if I don’t cook it, I might not eat it. 

So help me if you will, I enlist all those who have held a spatula in hand. I need recipes to help spice up my life or just my chicken dinners if you will…. Submit them today!!

Perception:  Stalkers are bad.

Perspective:  Some actually enjoys my ass enough to obsessively call me.

Perception:  Dried monkey paw meat is not a tasty meal (blog coming soon!)

Perspective:  People are resourceful in eating what they can in order to avoid starvation.

Perception and perspective…people mistaking interchange these words, but I have come to realize the vast difference in them.  A difference so great, it can hold the power of life or death in its hands but for me, it was the different between sanity and insanity, depression or purpose.

Perception is how you receive a viewpoint; perspective is how you administer it. 

Why is this so important?  Because I have been battling depression.  No, that is a lie, Depression had me in a chokehold and I have been calling people in order to receive sympathy, not change my perspective.  See, my position here in Africa has made me give up a lot of freedoms that I enjoyed.  These things that I enjoyed I realized help shaped me into the person I am and inspire to be.  There is no lie that “Independent Women, Miss Independent, or even I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T” all rotate heavily in my playlist and here, I feel like a daggone Scarlet O’Hara, dependent on the world around me and not able to use the voice that screamed so loud in America.

So, I was ready to board the plane. I hated Liberia. I hated Africa and I instructed my mother to burn all my “Power to the People” shirts.  I bleached my red, black, and green arm wrists, and I knew I was gone when I started to side with the Gammas and the Gamma Rays in School Daze…”don’t you wish you had hair just like this…then the boys would give you a kiss.”

I was in full plot, how to get home and start all over, because that is the luxury we have in America. To start over. I go back to teaching, I pay bills, I do everything I was doing, but all that did was depress me more.  I mean, how is that I travel so far and not go anywhere?  So I was stuck with nothing to do but to think. But, I didn’t think…I waited to be rescued.  I wanted to have my Titanic moment when I was swept off and rescued. And I screamed at God when my rescue wasn’t working out like I planned it too. 

Perception:  I am not important enough for you to want to date me.

Perspective:  You just opened my schedule up for me to talk to multiple people because you have proved stupidity.

See, I have been allowing other people’s opinions, actions, words, thoughts or their perception have impact on my perspective on my life. 

Perception:  Africa will be a life-changing experience.

Perspective:  Africa will be an experience; I will find ways to make it monumental in my life. 

So, it is at midnight and I realize that someone’s perception has influenced my perspective and caused me to be a mass of negativity and self-pity.  Because I was allowing someone else to determine my destiny or the purpose of my destiny and I felt lost within it.   When you live someone else’s perceptions (opinions, life, viewpoints) it will mess up your perspective on the life that is entitled to be yours.  You cannot be fulfilled or happy when you are going after someone else’s goals. 

So, simply in order to clear my mind I have to ignore some perceptions and remember why I came here.  I have a longer range of plan and I will use this as a stepping-stone to get closer to the end, not as a pity party to begin self-doubt.