That's it then...

Without as much as a whimper, without even a farewell, my course calendar heaved its last breath. Through a series of text messages, a late night phone call, and some posts to Moodle, I gathered that there are no more classes now, we are done. 

Goodbye, good luck, the end. There is a certain anticlimax to this arrangement, somehow. Perhaps, I had expected fond farewells, much back slapping and many hugs. Maybe I have been schooled to think of goodbyes and see-you-laters to be a production of sorts. Yet this is not always the case.

Sometimes, it is a gentle letting go of the hand once held, a drifting off of the binds once held dear. Yet that is not to say that there is no connection. Heartstrings are invisible and like cables lying buried deep under ocean floors, they buzz with thought and thoughts. They keep us connected and they keep us in discomfort, that is a good thing.

What have I learned?, I wonder as I settle into another phase of writing, submission and the anticipation that will come with a thesis proposal being submitted for review. 

I cannot list the many things that have made me who I am today, yet I know that there has been a change, a transformation in the way I think, see, interact and speak when I address inequities. Much of it due to the ideas shared and the wisdom of many that has percolated into my being.

When I hear negativity bring directed to the absent through comments such as ' these kids have never been shopping to the Bay' and 'OMG, these parents have no Canadian experience', I no longer charge in to make it okay: I merely sit with the words and write them down in the pages of my mental space. Someday these words will find the literature to name the sentiments that are being voiced. Someday, those other minds who have toiled long and hard to dig deep, will stand beside me as I go deeper. 

And until then, I continue to celebrate a phase of moving on: after many take out dinners, after countless, text messages to children left at home on their own, and a dream chased over 25 years. 

In my Konkani, my mother tongue, we don't that we are leaving: We say " yettaaan", that means, I will be back , I shall return, I am right here, round the corner. I shall come back.

In this sentiment of my Elders, who taught me to think in many tongues and speak the truth with courage, I say Khuda Hafiz to this time at York University. 10 years since applying for the B.Ed programme, it's been a great voyage.

Heartbeats lead to my many homes

Like Google Earth the idea zooms in from way up high. Western hemisphere, North America, Canada, Western Ontario, Greater Toronto, Markham or Downtown Toronto. Finally at street level, the idea finds me: 5 feet tall, in my 4th decade, woman, Indian by birth, Canadian by passport.

And here I am, walking with people in the dark of the night to enjoy something I had heard about but had not ventured out to explore until this year, 2012.

No more waiting, no more 'next year maybe' thoughts. It is now and I am leaving: with you or without you, I say. My son comes with me, his father does not. Strolling is not something everyone has time for.

I hide behind the permission of the Academy and say that it is for a school project. I do my mothering work and then cajole my son to go with me as leaving him all alone that entire night with his busy father is asking for trouble. Food is a hook and it works. Adventure is another, and that works too: in my favour.

"Are we safe" he wants to know. "I know what I am doing, I am a Mumbai girl" I declare and I see him settle into a comfortable zone. I take refuge in the 'street cred' earned in another urban space, popularised in North American consciousness through films and Bollywood stereotypes.

"I know this bus route", he declares, more confident as we approach the bus stop. My TTC warrior is following in the footsteps of an illustrious sister who has left for greater heights into another urban space, knows about tickets and transfers.

Yonge Street and he is a little boy again, 10 years ago. He recalls those times when he had to sit on my lap then to be able to look out of the window. Now I scramble to the window as he is taller than I am and can block my view. Time flies.

My son has realised that he does not need a male protector to get him to a place far away from his suburban home and back. His mother is enough. More than enough.

Amin, A (2007): Re‐thinking the urban social, City, 11:1, 100-114

Grassroots Canadian

I have always been a Flaneur or shall I say Flaneuse? I just didn't know it then. Until I was given the elite title with the blessings of the Academy, I was just another grassroots observor.  I literally observed grassroots, collected rocks, feather and leaves. I still do.

From years of habit of being told "look here and see that, and what does that remind you of, that strange cloud over there", growing up far away from Mumbai, I developed what Gardner calls the Naturalist Intelligence.

Everywhere around me is data: EQAO, DRA, PM Benchmark. And with it the botanisation of people as 'below grade level, at-risk and level 2'. No one says underserved; I plan to say that at the next staff meeting whenever it happens.

My students walk with the Terry Fox Run flag, taking care to turn themselves so that people and cars on the road can see the writing and pay homage to the memory of a man they know only by name and in books. The kindergartens who think that we are all dressed in red and white as it is Canada Day are laughed about and once again I hear the words " these kids, they lack Canadian experience".

Critical theory guides my path and I am in elite company: Socrates, The Frankfurt School sociologists, and more recently Friere et al.

And as we walk back from the 5k, I see this beautiful little maple leaf, lying in the grass by the side of the road. I am steeped in metaphor, yet I don't write, until now, almost three months later.

Good writing is hard work says a certain thinking dog who sleeps atop his house.

Real writing is soul work, I know. It has to marinade in angst before it can be shared.

As I walk with myself, I ask: "Whose land am I on?" And I tell those stories as I go.

Haig-Brown, C. (2009). Decolonizing diaspora:whose traditional land are we on?. Cultural and pedagogical inquiry, 1(1), 4-21.

Azaan- The call to namaaz

An unfamiliar word
on a blog created
to track my academic routes, you say.
An unfamiliar word
in 'mainstream' Canadian vocabulary,
you remind me.
And I continue to decolonise,
even by refusing to spell my word with a 'z'.

I, whose sister, raised in her father's faith
Was unable to travel freely in the city of her birth
and now the frowns at hijabs and nikaabs, and beautiful souls
labelled "the other"
by the ignorant

the danger of single-story worldviews
is creeping up on many
and the flight continues
as children continue to be raised with their own
and others are asked to transer schools to be with their kind

and I push
and push
with many
one stone at a time
to reduce to rubble, that un-knowledge
that we are all dust, together
sooner or later.

Regan, P. (2012). Unsettling the settler within. (1 ed.). Vancouver: UBC Press

I am human capital

It was Diwali week and I was off to pick up a little this and that for the festival. With each passing year, as the distance from my roots increases and one more family member has either passed on or moved to a distant place, I find myself caught in the middle. Somedays the torrent of memories threatens to wash me away into a space so unfamiliar that it is hard to drag myself back At such times, I don't write, I don't think even. I don't dwell on what was and what is not.

Yet, breathe, I must and with each breathe comes the fragrance of woodsmoke, so dear and precious from a life left behind. Winter in Goa, growing up in quiet, verdant villages has made me appreciate the signs of community kitchens on open fires or flames dying down softly under huge brass pots fo water heated for Diwali's ceremonial baths.

I doggedly shake my head and walk on to the next aisle as I try to pack those memories away for a time when course work will be done, reports written, child fed, kitchen cleaned and I can once again transport myself down the lanes that beckon in my dreams.

Until then, this will have to. 97 cents, that's a deal! I am aware that my memories lead me to buy and my buying behaviour that leads to economic transactions lead to cash flow. So my presence here and that of 'these people' as newcomers are often/sometimes referred to, is essential, nay critical to fuel the economy.

The mothers who work at the coffee shop down the street also pay to run schools and light up streets.

Did anyone do me a favour by opening doors? Something to think about...

McLaren, A. T., & Dyck, I. (2004). Mothering, human capital and the "ideal immigrant". Women's Studies International Forum, 27, 41-53.

Cosmopolitanism, Om and I on Yonge Street

This is supposed to be the holiest of sounds within which reverberates the rhythm of silence and chaos, creation and deconstruction. My Elders started all their journeys by uttering this word and I have this word imprinted in my mind since times gone by.

On Yonge Street, as the Go bus turns in to the Richmond Hill Centre and swings out again on its way to York University, I see this temple: The Vishnu Mandir with its om touching the sky.

Perhaps it wishes me well, perhaps I seek a deep rooted peace. All I know that my eyes seek out this Om, every time I pass that way.

Yet to many on the bus, it is an unfamiliar symbol of something 'out there'. As am I, the silver haired woman, weighed down with bags, who bows her head as the bus turns.

In the land of my birth it is already morning as I make my way to York University.

And one day at a time, I reclaim my Om, as I become another regular sight in a land far away.

Beck, U, & Sznaider, N. (2006). Unpacking cosmopolitanism for the social sciences: a research agenda. The British Journal of Sociology, 57(1), 1-23.

Flaneuse Rashmee

This is my starting point, Dadar station. Countless times have I passed this place. As a young woman of 18 going off on field trips, or as a young mother, 10 years later with a baby on my hip. And in between those two identities, there was the other me: fearless, drug rep for a pharmaceutical company walking through the crowded platforms, armed with an umbrella, weighed down by samples of tonics and appetite stimulants to be sold into slums where my souls twisted at the sight of empty bellies.

No, this is not the setting of Slum Dog Millionaire, I say to those who ask or gawk. This is my home, this is where I still live. In my heart, in my quiet moments.

Noisy, crowded, busy, Dadar. Mumbai Pin Code 400 014

Come see me sometime, I know the best place for chai.

Stehle, M. (2008). Psychogeography as teaching tool: Troubled travels through an experimental first-year seminar. Journal of educational and informational studies, 4(2), 1-25.

Decolonosing labels-And being Indian

I attended the ImagineNative Film Festival yesterday at the TIFF Bell Lightbox Theatre. I had to accomplish a lot of mothering work in order to get there and as I watched the films and listening to the panel discussions, I was acutely mindful of the privilege of being in that space.

I am currently reading a report on the Canada Arts Council website. As I do so, I am able to see my own work ideas evolve and move deeper into acknowledging the naming of mothers as 'South Asian' in this land now called Canada.

I was Indian until January 16th, 2002 and was unwittingly reborn as South Asian from the day my Landing Papers were stamped at Pearson International Airport. I did not know I was reborn, renamed and recast as the other in a land that had 'welcomed' me with open arms: my fluency in the colonial language was my entry ticket.

Only now am I learning to say that I am not South Asian.

After a lot of thought and soul searching, I am learning to say that I am Indian. This process took almost 11years, this peeling of labels placed on me by someone else's understanding. They can call me what they wish based on their view of the world. I am still who I am, and that me is forever changing.

In my worldview, this is who I am. It may confuse some people, but they will learn.

So also other mothers are who they wish to be when they connect their identities with their own ancestral peoples. And they have that self-granted permission. They need no other.

 I celebrate this moment as I have found my voice and articulation as I have made room for the pain and anger of the people who feel that the voices of their peoples are yet to be heard.

In teaching my computer to recognise words like 'knowledges' and 'peoples', I am decolonising some spaces one mouse-click at a time.

Haig-Brown, C. (2012). Indigenous thought, appropriation and non-aboriginal people. Canadian Journal of Education , 33(4), 925-950.

My learning spaces

Monday was the turning point

I have to sit and
watch the anger
and make sense of it
and let it be

as someone's pain
rips through my efforts to learn more
and deny me the wisdom of my Guru

People reach out their hands in understanding
and they are pushed back- that's the way it has always been

I am not oppressed enough to be an Insider-

My history is down the ladder from that of others
and therefore my need to learn is tokenistic

I know some have said it before, with vested interest

I cannot bear the burden of history because I was not there then...

but I will not leave it there.

I am here now and what am I going to do about it?

Thank you for being you,

one of my very patient teachers.

History books

I am learning about decolonizing research methodologies, or at least trying to. It is an interesting process when I wade through the layers of rage that holds things at arms reach. I have not suffered enough and am not oppressed enough to earn the badge of the Insider. That is  a strange sensation and I observe it, without being voyeuristic. It's me looking at me after all.  Where's the thrill of that?

So I just go back to what I have to do as a critical thinker and work in the space between theory and practice. Before starting with text books, I wanted to get my students to look at what is available in their school library. So off they went to bring books to read and share. I also posted websites that were on the prescribed portal. 

One student was busy working through his reading assessment and he went today.

He came back with a picture book: India and Sri Lanka.

I just smiled and kept on learning.

Butterfly magic

Hello Students,

What a wonderful day of learning this has been ! When I came to work at 6:30 am this morning, I had not even imagined how my life would change. You made it happen.

When I was 13 years old, I lived in a lovely little cottage in Goa, a beachside province in India. I too had found pupae. 5 of them, hanging from the underside of leaves in a field where I was cycling. I knew what they were as I was a student of science and a keen observer or nature all around me, so I brought them home. I made a home for these pupae in a cardboard box that I got from my grandfather. He used to store his medicines in it. It was like a small shoe box, the kind you had for your kindergarten shoes maybe. 

My school was too far from my home. So taking them to show a teacher was not possible.  I took care of them and watched over them before and after school. Then one day, these pupae turned from a shimmery green to a dark colour and then some days later, to a black and white pattern. And I waited some more. At 13, waiting was a difficult thing to do.

Then one day, I came home from school and opened the box again. And there it was, the magic unfolding before my very eyes. I did not tell my siblings as they were 8 and 10 years younger than I was, and we all know what it means.

I saw the beautiful butterflies emerge one by one from their cramped home of the past weeks. They came out and crawled out of the box, one by one. Just as Ms. W helped Buddy today, I had stood there, many, many years ago and watched them move their wings.

I had watched in wonder as each one crawled on to my hand; one perched on my watch strap, two on my wrist, one crawled up my arm and the fifth stayed on the lid for a while. Then one by one, they flew away.

Today, 33 years later, I witnessed that magic again. And it was more beautiful than the first time.  This time, I was not alone. I was with Ms. W and Ms. M and above all, I was with you. 

Through your oohs and aahs, through the gentleness with which you carried the jar, the way you looked at the sky wishing Buddy a safe flight, through your joy and your sadness, I realised once again, how thankful I am that you are with me this year. 

You teach me to see magic, you teach me to be honest, you teach me to speak my mind. ou teach me to hope. 

And above all, you let me into that special, precious place: the mind of a child. 

Thank you for being my teachers today. Happy Teachers Day to you.

Anniversaries

10 years. They pass in a flash. Or is it time that compresses in retrospect to present that illusion? I think it is mostly the latter. Those were long and difficult journeys.

 

September 26th, 2002 was a very special day; I know that now.

After ruminating for a long time, and taking inspiration from many, I had finally decided to go to the York University Information Night for the Faculty of Education. I did not drive, I barely took public transit. In spite of my admirable fluency in the socially dominant language in my new home (Ahem, English: this is my attempt to activate academic language at 5 am, just to prove that coffee works magic after 4 hours of sleep), I was apprehensive.

I was going to a university in Canada to get information for my next steps.

I did not know who I would meet, what I would ask, what they would tell me.

I was well into my third decade and I had a dream...

 

I wanted to go back to pick up the dropped thread of my former career: I wanted to take from my corporate experience the job skills that would help me find work and 'settle' into my new life. After my long break from paid work ( thank you Drs. G and S for that lens), I was not ready to move back into juggling multiple roles. I was mindful of the monetary needs of the future and I wanted to do something about it with a field I loved.

 

I took a bus from right outside my street and went to Finch Station. From there, I took a crowded 60F. As the bus turned the corner into a tree lined boulevard, I was aware that this was a special place. Ahead of me lay a yellow domed building. I got off the bus and asking some younger people where to go, I made my way to a lecture hall, the fragrance of pizza wafting around me.

 

In true keener style, I took a seat in the front row. The lecture hall filled soon and a woman entered.

She spoke of the facts: the degree requirements from other universities, transcripts, letters of recommendation and spaces available for the programme. Numbers are frightening at such times: Over 7000 people apply, of these we shortlist 1500 and admit 750 people she said.

 

Then she said something that I will forever carry in my consciousness: "Do not limit yourself by thinking about other people's qualifications", she advised. " Just put together all you need to submit and do what you have to do. Do not feel intimidated by what you think is in your way. You don't know what the application pool is like."

 

And I did. Apply that is. It was not easy, many helped. My siblings who made countless trips to the university to coordinate the long process of transcript aquisition are the first in my gratitude list. They have always been my lifeline and they still tease me that had I done it right the first time, I wouldn't still be going to school. Cheeky but oh so dear !

 

I applied, and yesterday, 10 years after that day, I stood on that hallowed ground and spoke of Rethinking Urban Spaces. I stood on land the gift of which has not been acknowledged by everyone who walks it.

 

Yet I know that to be there, in that space, on that land is a privilege. I thank all who walked with me and who nudged me to take one more step. Through that one step and the encouragement of that one woman, I have found my life's work. I have met her this summer to thank her and miraculous, or shall I say by strong spiritual connection, I was in the same space that day when she mentioned she was moving to another area of work in the university. And I wished her well, knowing she would go on to touch lives just as meaningfully.

 

This, was the turning point in my life. This day, ten years ago was the milestone that marked perhaps one of the first points of my journey. There are two more I can think of, but those are other stories for another 5 am tryst with memories.

 

Today I am blessed with many brothers and sisters who nurture my spirit in this journey. And I have many Gurus who touch my life with their magic.

 

I keep walking...

Signature day

He waits by the door
long after others have left

a sheaf of papers in his hand
that his parents have signed in pencil

"I have to sign this and give it in,
it's due today" he says

But I need help...
"To read what's in it?" I ask

No, he remarks, looks down at me
as he towers over
and whispers

'What is a signature?
I don't have one'

So we get to work
I explain the concept to him
Unique
A combination of his first and last name
that he can repeat over and over
if required:
so the driver's licence and the bank card
look the same
and they know it's him

He nods
and doodles
and leaves

And that afternoon he tells me
triumphant

I did it
I handed it in
I wasn't late
I have a signature

FY is out into the world
And he is smiling.

Time, it goes fast

I met him today after many years.

We were out in the community, doing the long awaited Terry Fox Run. I walked with the different classes, and took pictures as I went through the quiet neighbourhood. 9 years in this place and I marvel at the peaceful company of the students and many colleagues who have shared this journey with me. When I first started working here, some of the students I now teach, and who tower over me had not even stepped into kindergarten. The ones who recently graduated had perhaps just learned to write their names. That's how long it has been. And as I wandered the paths coming back to the beloved building, I met him again.

He was talking to his grade 8 teacher, I had taught him the previous year. He has grown. He smiles now, he even has a smile in his voice. I was bringing up the rear and I waited with him, the others went on.  I stood there with him perched on his bike and we chatted a little of this and that. We did not speak of many things. I know I remembered most of them. And I was absolutely delighted to hear that he has completed grade 12 and after taking a year off, is headed to college.

I had said to him once long ago that I had two of him in my class: One who was very smart, and the other who was terrified I'd find out. I am glad that he persisted, though to get this far I am sure there were many who worked tirelessly and lay awake late nights to pray. He asked about his other teachers, my brothers who have now travelled far to touch other lives. One has returned to touch some lives closer home. I promised to tell them about him and that he was well.

In the days when I had lost touch, I would think of him often: was he one that I had let down, not done enough for, not followed through on something....

It is soul work, this teaching and learning. It is reciprocal transformation. I am not a catalyst that by definition affects a reaction but does not participate in it: I participate with all my heart and I am renewed everyday.

"You should have pushed me some more, Miss", he said. " I did" I replied, " As much as you would allow me. Then you went off" I reminded him.

With disarming honesty, he smiled. "Yeah, but I remembered. I appreciate all that you did for me" he said.

We shook hands, I think. And he said, very honestly and truthfully: "Time, it flies". At 18 he knows that.

On this overcast day, with the clouds of confusion and discord looming over the collective future of educators, I needed this sunshine.

As I saw him ride away, a humongous bottle of pop tucked under his arm, with a baseball cap matching his shoes, I smiled and my shimmering eyes saw only golden, glowing, glorious hope.

I am here and I return, because he matters, they all matter.

Someday, this too shall pass. And I squared my shoulders and walked back home... to Cedarwood.

ECOO 2012

My first time last year at ECOO, when the keynote speaker had asked " what is going to change in 21st century learning" I had responded " hopefully ableism". I was sitting in the back row and my raised hand was not seen. But I knew that I had to say what I wanted to at the time. So I stood up and raised my hand. The next day when I told my students this story and asked them should I have done had I not been called to speak, they replied: You should have stood on the chair so that your raised hand would be seen". They know what accommodations are, we learn about them together.

I don't label myself therefore will not call myself a techie nor an equity oriented teacher; I am just me.

I am presenting a session with a colleague at ECOO 2012 called Equitable Outcomes in 21st Century Learning where we plan to address the needs of marginalised communities and therefore students.

My observation in schools has been that the more competent people get with new learning especially technology, the greater is the gap created by the ivory tower that they inhabit. This marginalises teachers who are themselves learning; due to issues of subtle organisational power, social capital coming out of ageism, gender bias and other factors, concentric circles are alive and well. The farther these teachers are from the centre of learning and therefore power, the more marginalised are their students. This is a hidden reality in education. Not many speak about it: those who hold power do not see their entitlement and those who do not have it are silenced by invisible barriers that arise maninly out of unprofessional conversations that shame and segregate those who strive to learn. Thankfully, some of us break through those barriers and continue to ask courageous questions. I speak up because these silenced voices matter: my colleagues, students and communities walk with me on this journey.

The journey is therefore to create awareness and to speak up, something many of us continue to do.

No labels here, they just don't stick.

Gardening Tips

I have an interesting garden
where I have learned to let things grow
as they were intended

the lawn is not manicured
and neither are my hands
I rarely use gloves
when I dig in the dirt

Ijust sit and  stare sometimes
at empty spaces
and imagine the possibilities
of what can grow here
or there

I try to dig out the rocks and pebbles
that would hinder the tender roots
of young plants
and after I scatter the grass seeds
I wait
and water
and watch

when the first green sprouts appear
I rejoice
and then I get to work
scattering some more seeds in the bald spots
so that I fill in the gaps
that were left behind
unknowingly

I have learned to thrive where
I was planted
and if I moved to another
I put down roots there
and waited for the sun to shine

there are no weeds in my garden
as my eyes don't recognise them
for a rose grower a rice plant is a weed
for a rice grower, a rose is one

so it is perspective then
and patience
that waters the fertile Earth
and I wait eagerly for this oasis
to thrive.

Why this, why now?

A relaxed day, long overdue. A doctor's appointment to discuss a two year old accident and the aftermath that still comes to visit, through pain and fear.

And now, with the family away, with just the cat for company, I am thinking aloud to friends and cousins I have never or not met in a while.

With the kids growing up, and 20 years of marriage behind me and parents not physically around in this world, I am reinventing myself and fulfilling long dormant dreams.

Yes, as mothers and wives, some of us tend to tell ourselves that "later"is a real concept and that people will indeed let us be free, but sometimes you have to wrench that freedom from the grasp of other people's needs.

Don't need me so much please. Let me live for myself too, just a little bit.

I like it.

Return to Sender

Gurus come in all shapes and sizes. Each one is responsible for my learning journey. There are no labels on experiences, labels on people are there? It is what I take from each interaction that counts.

Some things I have learned this year:

When my students' resources are challenged, when their right to access is hindered, I do not stay silent. I stand up and speak. 

When I keep discussions issue based, some people don't like it.

When I stand up for the courage of my convictions, their whispers don't matter

When I work hard at something and people label it is as deficient or 'whatever', I don't beat myself up.

When I do not open the presents of negative labels and comments, these gifts get returned to the sender.

 

Here it is then: the big learning moment for me. My work, my efforts and my learning are what they mean to me.  My mistakes and AHA moments teach me to be more, to see more, to grow.

Everything else is headed for the compost heap. And it makes the soil richer for new ideas and blossoming of positive energy.

So back to sender it is.

Happy day!

The real story

Here I am sitting with a grade 6 student who has finished his EQAO test a few minutes ahead of time. I am going to work with him next year so we are spending a little time chatting. He tells me about his family, I tell him about mine.

"Were does your daughter want to go university", he asks, wise beyond his years, knowing what he knows: after all he comes from a culture where "these parents" want "these kids" to go to university. So he knows what comes next.

"Have you been to Quebec", he asks. "Yes", I reply, " My daughter is going to university to Montreal, so we visited last month.

"Do you know there are bad people in Montreal now? They are bad, very bad", he remarks. He's been watching the student protests and this is what he remembers from the vivid images. I choose not to engage in the politics of this discussion, time enough for that later. Now, I only sit and listen to him.

So we chat. I talk to him about the conversations around equity and affordability and democracy as simply as his young mind can understand.

At the end he says: "You mean it is like selling a slice of pizza for 10 dollars so no one can afford it anymore. I get it."

You sure do, young man. You sure do.

Flaneur Rashmee: Homeward bound

At the Graduate Conference yesterday, I was completely transfixed by the Flaneur presentation.

I watched as the presenters shared their pictures of the changes they perceived in the communities and their responses to these changes. There were many heartfelt moments where my sentiments echoed those of the speakers: what it means to be an insider or outsider, what it means to touch the wistful twinge one feels to see a high rise amidst the cookie cutter homes one is used to be, what it means to be thrown into the midst of a movement and realise the anonymity of being the other.

I touched the feelings that I go through when I see the well lit balcony of my childhood home in Mumbai, where no one lives anymore. A place that once bustled with voices, arguments, the aroma of food cooked with love, a door that never shut anyone out is today a relic of the past. It is a pilgrimage site for the sibs to take their children to. I have one old key that does not open any doors in that home. Yet, I have the memory of my mother's soft hand pressing the key into my hand as I left her there, the last time I saw her still recognisable. After that she became a patient, sliding into assisted living, to be talked at and around. And I am still angry from that. Sitting in silence does not help. That is another view.

I have been doing this all these years without realising that it had a name. I have walked the streets of my neighbourhood, extremely mindful of the changes in the urban environment of Mumbai, Markham and Goa where I live everyday.

The wistfulness, the sensations of loss and of progress in myself and the view I see has always brought me back to the ephemeral nature of life.

My usb and Picasa account are filled with photographs of my walks. Just yesterday I realised that I was Flaneur Rashmee.

I sribbled my thoughts as I listened. I know what it means to be an outsider and an insider. I guess once I chose to leave, I lose all those factes of being an insider that made me who I am. Once I cross that line in the sand, I need permission, mostly tacit to revisit. I cannot encroach. Therefore I do not photograph Dharavi. These are homes of people who have found a way to survive, not to be gawked at. I respect that. It's home for many, not a voyeuristic destination for media moguls and hotshot filmmakers.

Does naming something make it richer?

Or are memories worth what they are just because they are there?

And my gaze, it is forever mindful.

Story tellers

 In one of my Master's courses, we are talking of story telling and social memory.

As the Elder now, for the little ones and my own siblings, this is more than just a curricular outline: I find myself sifting through the childhoods of the three as well as my own, as what I saw then was through the eyes of a 7 year old or a 10 year old or being the age I was when that particular event happened. 

Sometimes, when they tell me a memory they have or an assumption about a certain thing being this way or that, they ask me to confirm it. I go along with it, although I remember otherwise. Far be it from me to shake the foundation of what they have constructed in their memories of a life that changed all too soon.

I am asked " Do you remember what time I was born?" or "What had happened then?" And I have either to break it to them that at that young age, I was too excited by the arrival of a sibling to register the time and later lived on thinking that someone else will remember for sure. And that they'd be there forever.

Yet, that is not so. And as we wept over not knowing her birthtime, days after her younger daughter was born, my sister promised that she would tell her older daughter what her own and her sister's birth time was and insisted that I do the same for my children. " So someone remembers" she said, not stating the obvious "After you and I are gone"- in my culture it is deeply ingrained not to invoke Fate by stating what you do not wish to happen yet.

So what do I do now? I sift through what I remember. I ask my siblings if their 6 year olds have an email address. I ask if I may write to them about what is going on in my life or tell them about the times, I spent with them 2,3,4 years ago when Amma was with us and I went to Mumbai often.

I know that with the financial constraints and time differences, also the sheer soul-weariness of going back to houses that have redecorated their insides to accommodate for Amma's absence, I am not going back soon.

As  I learn to move from Spring to Fall without expecting to board a flight in between, as I learn to make do with Skype on weekends when we have the time or to wistfully gaze at WorldTime on my iPhone, I am learning to root my heart where my feet are. In doing so, I am finally, 10 years since coming to this new land, seeing new promise of home.

Then why does my vision blur as I write this. Because I am making up a story that I want to believe in and even as I write it, I know that it is not true. Naigaum, Dadar, Mumbai 14 will always be home.

Silent Voices: I was one

​I used to be one, you know: the bullied, the bystander the silent voice. 

Never with students though. With them, I am the epitome of activism. I stand up with students, and my children. I remind them the about the difference between 'tattling' and 'reporting', I help them work up the courage to speak up even if they were not the bullied. I also teach them that while the bully does need help, they are not to sacrifice their peace of mind and their shining selves to this cause. Others will step in and help.

With myself though, it was another story. Ignore it and it will go away. 

Until I realised that I had to do something to speak up for myself and others who are thus marginalised. In the 'expert' world we live in, where social capital drives many journeys, it is so easy to blend into the shadows for fear of ridicule. 

When the whispers and the insinuations become loud only to ones ears, when people one seeks help from make excuses on behalf of the aggressors, when one is labelled as 'too touchy, too sensitive, too thin-skinned"... the voices are silenced, marginalised, minoritized. I was one such person.

It took the voice of one young person at Quest 2011 to remind me that 'somebody cares'. I just to find that person. I started with me and went forward from there.

And since then, I speak. I speak often, I speak to understand. I am waiting for things to change, but I know, as do others, that I am not silent any more. And I am not alone, others are speaking too:softly, surely.

The secret: keep the discussions issue based. 

Resource allocation,
role clarification,
who is at the centre,
who is at the margins,
why?

This helps me use my White Hat at all times. 

Unless we do something with policy, and guidelines, brochures, classrooms and beautiful words painted into murals, they remain just that: just words.

I was reminded by a Guru on November 1st, 2011 at Parkland Public School that courageous conversations must happen. I was also reminded at Quest 2011 that "Equity work is hard work". And the Mahatma said: Be the change. So I will.

If I don't tell this story, who will? 

I am a storyteller

An unusual introduction
in a liberating class

where I am free to be me
and not a set of label who also breathes:
BSc, B.Ed, whatever

I am the first-born daughter of only children
On my shoulder lies the mantle
gently placed there
by my Teeamma
who raised me on her stories

As I do my children,
for the nieces and nephew, I have blogs

I share vivid recounts of their grandfather, my Pappa
and his first raincoat, that I had heard
or my tree climbing adventures as a child
reaching the highest branches for guavas that I have never liked
(just the thrill of climbing was the delight)

I was asked early: "Who will tell these stories,when I am gone"

And this is my destiny, as I walk
As an Elder: first born daughter of only children
caught between those here in spirit
and old souls in new bodies

Fortunate to be drenched
in the words
that are waiting
to be strung into tales.

Were there others?

I give thanks, this sunshine-filled mid-week day for my Gurus who come in various avatars. As I write this, I am delighted that both words have crept in on soft feet from Sanskrit where they were born into the language that I have adopted as my own.

We have been learning about the Titanic at school: facts, opinions, speculation and wonderings. I am always humbled the energy with which students throw themselves into learning when they are presented something engaging. And the gift given to me, as a facilitator, that I can ask questions that invite them to step out of a school-ed path of thinking and consider the whispers of silent voices.

We read through fact sheets, and pored over websites and newspapers. We made posters, dabbed recounts with fragrant teabags to make them appear old. We got ready for the Titanic Museum walkabout.
And then my most vocal Guru asked a question, honey brown eyes honest and earnest, stopping just to catch his breath:

Were the other ships?
Were there other people?
Do you know who they were?
Are we going to learn about them too?
Are there books, are there websites or photos?

See, this is the payback. Once I present one set of stories, the fertile mind is going to ask for more. The ethical and pedagogical responsibility for me then is to go out and find out more. So that I bear witness to the journey of learning: mine and theirs.

Critical thinking jumps out of coloured hats and cue cards and becomes a niggling question that I must ask myself:

Do I have the courage to admit that I don't know?
Do I have the courage to tell them what I do know?
Do I have the strength to walk with these questions until we find some answers?

Do you?

Namaste.

Remember me?

Dear Student-Who-Does-Not-Remember-Me, 

I hope you are well. I am back in school now, working on my Master’s courses. I enjoy being in class with colleagues and discussions that we engage in. Some participate vocally, some with their silence. It’s a safe place.

There are days when I wonder what I am I doing, whether any of this matters: if after years of cancer research, we still lose loved ones, is my analogy for this. Surely that does not mean that we have not made progress as a people: where Terry Fox had to have his leg amputated and succumbed at such a young age, today the same cancer today is curable. I remember reading that article a few years ago in class. Was that you then, who was excited about making a difference? 

You are an adult now and I can talk to you about serious matters. While I do agree that some teachers must stop seeing themselves so seriously and understand that factors other than themselves drive education. From my corporate perspective, with my first career, I too am often perplexed at why colleagues delve so much into what is not and have such a hard time making the best use of what is, now. What is within us. What is within our communities of practice. Maybe that is the way forward. Perhaps we can look at others, just a little further North who have less. The deficits are in the lenses, not in the objects. But we don't get it, we are too busy venting about what we don't have.

I also believe that as an educator, or as an individual, one identity blends into the other. I see my narrative if you will, comes from the advantages I have that others don't (erasure?? really??). I refuse to deny that I am privileged: I had a head start in life, others didn’t. I had a head start in Canada, other’s didn’t. It’s simple when I think of it this way, for me at least.

I guess I am able to come back to what I do well everyday as I do not let others define who I am or to put a judgement on what I do, and I also do extend that respect to others. So whether it is silver hair, or my fight for social justice, I march to my own drummer. Many do. And that is what works for me. And them too, I’m sure.

Clearly those who leave are, like all living things that perish or phase out, those who do not adapt; this is where science guides me. Adapt or perish. Darwin had seen something there.

The most effective teachers, and we do remember them, are those who care enough to work outside the box, who refuse to let students close the doors on their own potential and who believe in them until they start believing in themselves.

Surely you remember the ones who touched your lives. Why else would you holler across the mall and swing me into the air with joy, startling my son? Why do you wave when you see me at traffic lights or at the library? Why do you ask: How is Cedarwood without me? And LOL when I quip: “Better”. That is all that matters.

On cold Monday nights when I return home, I sometimes meet a former grade 7 student on the bus back to Markham. We exchange news, they chat and I respond. We speak of our journeys. They wish me well and say that they hope I will teach at the university someday. They ask if I still wear my beautiful necklaces as they cannot see them bundled under my coat. It's all good.

Do I expect plaques? No way. Even a nod is great. I don’t remember all their names always, yet I am not here for the vacations. That I suppose is the acid test. They call me Miss, high school air does that to them. The next time, they address me by my name.

 I can say for myself that I do not start out each day to be remembered. I start out with the desire that I don't lose the students who need that special something.

And yes, I do teach to bring awareness. That is empowering for students and for me, as I see my own mortality in the mirror everyday and my presence merely as scaffolding.

I am a dreamer, but I am not the only one.

I go to school to learn. Then why am I confused?

When I express my confusion at staff meetings, in core groups, or when mass emails reach me, I am not being touchy. I am seeking information: is this equitable, is this fair, is this just? Is this the promise of a civil society?

 

I write this with a heavy heart on a day that should have been allocated merely for celebration: today is the 10th anniversary of my family's move to Canada. I am aware that I, given my point of entry, am allowed to call myself a transplanted or relocated Canadian or an emigre from India.

 

Many of our parents are not given that freedom: they are immigrants, newcomers and perceived as somehow lacking in what they can do for their children.

 

I would like share my thoughts about the implied and perceived deficits in the schema of our students. Educational reform requires those of us who can, should try to bring our voices to inform decisions so that standardised tests reflect diversity, and not to insist overtly and subliminally, to assimilate rich cultures into a monochromatic vista. So if EQAO tests talk about portage and pucks, can that be changed? Instead of getting all 'newcomer' parents to pack off and head for the rink?

Even in 'our schools' there is a segment of parents who are more 'North American' (read professional, affluent, well spoken). We see them at school council meetings and they are vocal. They participate in discussions, they have professional degrees that are (finally) recognised in their adopted country. They can read the world that they inhabit.

 

Do all our parents know that the fact that they say 'tution' and not 'tutoring' is a source of ongoing amusement for many?

Do they know that they are sometimes packed into a labelled box because they are perceived to be alike?

Do they know that the fact that they dream of careers for their children, they are seen as anomalies by many?

Do they know that their knowledge of mathematics and science, those universal languages, in which the Ontario curriculum is way behind many other 'developing countries', is not valued by their project driven children?

Do they know that their ongoing support means driving their child to the library on weekends to get the books they need. It means talking to a tutor to get the extra help because they are working in the evening and cannot sit with their child. This means signing the permission form to let their child go to electives as going to the slopes themselves may invite raised eyebrows.

 

How do I know this? Because I too have been spoken to loudly so that I can understand. I too have been stared at, at the Markham Village rink. A student and her mother who has a degree in science and proudly wears her cultural clothes, have been told to 'go back' in no uncertain terms.

 

Yet, 10 years later, I am hopeful.  As there are many who do not see these as deficits. Many who reach out and walk together. Many who care. For your presence in my life, I am thankful. I am thankful for my sisters and brothers who are my strength and my joy.

 

I usually photograph a sunrise every January 16th to remind myself of the new beginnings. Today I photographed a sunset.

 

I lived for 32 years in India, 4 overseas and 10 in Canada. I carry all those memories in every breath. I speak for myself, yet there are many who are unheard. Today, I dedicate my voice to those unheard ones.

 

And I firmly believe that I will continue to speak up with heart and integrity as long as I can, and for when I cannot, my children and my students will take my place. I am confident that this journey is not a wasted one.