Notes From My Journal: Chapter Four

Notes From My Journal: Chapter Four

     Here I sit in my little back room, two days away from my thirty-sixth birthday. The only life I’ve ever known, an ever-changing life rushing past me faster and faster day after day. Here I sit filled with the sickness of our times. Thousands of years of insane self-love, and greed flow through my veins. Sadu, white man, pale skinned, pale-eyed demon, murderer, rapist, pilferer, unnatural soulless beast, at least that’s how Ishi’s people thought of him. My white skinned fore fathers have wrought havoc on all nature. And the white man, that is modern man, regardless of the color of his skin, continues to do so today thinking himself the master of the world, a world that will be scared for thousands of years by his passing.

     On the fringe of our society are a few men who have not succumbed to the sickness. And, in most countries they are allowed to voice their observations, harmless observations that go unwanted and unheeded. Who listens to the sane? Who listens to the sane? Who understands their simple message? Jesus, a complete human being, what a mockery the Church has made of his teachings. Walt Whitman, a man of total vision, relegated to the role of democratic poet. Henry Miller, a voice of truth, known only as a writer of dirty books.

    Though the voice of the sane is muffled and distorted, the message remains clear. Loosen the binders of fear, ignorance, self-pity, and greed. The truth is self-evident. It can be ignored, but it can never be destroyed. As the middle becomes more and more materialistic, and less and less spiritual, the fringe looks more and more inviting. Staying there is very difficult however. After all, you have to eat don’t you? You have to feed your kids, make some effort to bring about a change in our environment.

     Dostoevsky, another man of the fringe, what miraculous foresight, prophetic vision, he possessed. He said we would trade our very souls, our freedom, our chance to be alive, for a crust of bread. We give up our souls, even though we have the power within ourselves to turn water into wine, and multiply the loves and fishes.

    It is all through lack of communication, our inability to hear the truth that has come down to us. We ca not communicate what we truly feel for another because we are all tied up in our self-love. We cannot hear the Truths of the great teachers because we feel that there is no Truth above that which is pounded into our brains by our history.

     Communication? Isn’t that my most important function as a teacher, to teach the students to communicate with one another, to communicate directly to each and every student? Yet, how often in a day do I communicate with a kid, with an adult even? And how many of my colleagues look at communication as the major function of a teacher.

    Most of my colleagues feel that their job is to impart knowledge, to fill the student’s head with knowledge. “How the hell can a child become a functioning part of the social structure if he can’t read or write,” the old timers tell me. And, they teach reading and writing not as a basis for communication, but as a foundation for obtaining and passing on knowledge.

     Teach them to read and write. Give them the fundamentals of arithmetic. Provide them with basic study skills so we can fill their minds with the wisdom of our scientific culture. Reward them for their successes and make reward the goal of life. Teach them to be punctual and capable of self-control. Stifle their uncontrolled spontaneity and channel it into functional creativity. Prepare them to fit into the right slot. Teach them to adapt to their surroundings, to find their true place in society, to be happy, secure, safe, and sound. Teach them to be dull dead contributors to the common good, citizens who will be an asset to their country’s glorious goals of rape and pillage.

     When I think of what I do to my students I grow sick inside. Yet, given the structure that I have to work in most of my attempts to ease up and give the students more freedom fail. I think of the new sixth grade teacher, Ida. I remember peeping into her classroom at the beginning of the school year. There she was sitting on the floor calmly reading palms while the rest of the classroom was in chaos. I find that I can’t do that even though it might lead to a more-free classroom atmosphere. I find that I have to have some order, some quiet to teach. And, in bringing about the quiet and order, I often poison the classroom atmosphere. I find myself screaming for the kids to be quiet and losing all possibility of communication.

    I screw up the first report card putting Leo’s second copy under the first copy of Suzette’s. I have to rewrite Suzette’s card wasting near a half hour. When I start my second card, I hear Anne answering the kitchen phone. “Good, what time will you be here?” she asks.

     “It’s Alex, Jack!” Anne yells.

    “What’s happening, man?” I ask after Anne hands me the phone.

     “Not much. Happy Birthday!” Alex replies.

     “Yea, don’t remind me, man.”

     “Hey, my brother, Dave and his wife dropped in unexpectedly last night. I thought we’d stop by on our way up to Yosemite.”

    “Yea, good. I was just thinking I’d like to see you.”

     “We thought we’d stay over night and go up the hill in the morning if that’s alright.”

     “Sure, I’m doing report cards, and I’m in a really down mood.”

     “Well, we want get over to your place ‘til around four. I want to show them around Salinas a little first.”

     “Good, that’ll give me time to finish up most of the cards.”

     “O.K. We’ll see you then.”

      As I return to my report cards, I’m feeling really happy that Alex and his gang are coming over tonight. I love it out here in the country, with the chance to spend some time alone, but on the other side of the coin, I’m missing company, friendship, other voices to listen to.

     I have been very withdrawn in the past several months. Really feeling a need to get more into myself. Partial this is due to reading Herman Hess. I’ve read Demian, Steppenwolf, and Siddhartha in the past six or eight months. His deep insight into the spiritual aspect of man has sent me searching into myself. I find myself in the same place that he had placed his main characters, living in two worlds and being drawn more and more into the much less inhabited inner world.

    Living twelve miles outside of town, I am in a great place to experience the inner world of myself. Here we sit smack dab in the middle of a large farm in a hundred year old country house with the greening foothills of Mt Diablo shinning in the distance. No neighbors, no street lamps, or city noises. I can walk outside my back door at night see the bright light of the evening stars.