Mrs. Loux's English Class



Tomatoes and OnionsI'm a tomato and the problem is, everyone else is an onion. I discovered this from watching the grown-ups when I was young. Whenever we went out to restaurants or the movies, I would notice things about their behavior on things. They were so different, yet oddly enough, they all seemed to act the same way. Adults were onions, protected by a layer of skin so that no one could see who they really were. And I was a tomato, as fragile and new to the world as could be. The slightest touch left an imprint on my mind, whether it was an insinuation or an insult. And I started thinking about it.We're all born tomatoes. By age eleven, the change to onionhood is already underway. The whole process is very subtle, and it is seldom thought about afterwards. It begins with authority figures, any of the major influences in a child's life: parents, friends, school, and television. In order to feel accepted by these figures, children have to adapt to certain rules. Girls learn to be thin. Guys learn to impress girls. Everyone learns to get the right answer at school. And if they fail to meet any of these criteria, they get embarrassed. This is the "red onion" phase, halfway between tomatohood and onionhood.Soon enough, kids begin inventing ways to escape criticism. The girl can choose not to eat or she can pretend that she doesn't care about guys. The guy can choose to imitate someone famous or he can pretend that he hates girls. The kids who usually gets the right answers at school find ways to seem like they always get the right answers; and the kids who rarely get the right answers find ways to show that they don't care. This is the skin of the onion developing. And by the beginning of high school, the mature onion has formed. With time, its skin grows thicker. Some onions even realize that they are onions, but are hesitant to peel for fear of losing their safety.Occasionally I'll catch myself onionizing, especially if something really bothers me. In my freshman year of high school, I was scared that I wouldn't make any friends so I convinced myself that I was the loner type. For months I refused to meet anybody because I had already decided that we wouldn't get along. It felt awful to finally confront my fear. But I didn't avoid doing it. I knew it was going to leave a bruise on me, and that was fine because it was better than covering up my problem. And once I opened up, I had an easier time meeting people to than I would have ever imagined. That's the way tomatoes are. We never try to hide who we are or how we think.College, where one learns to question the status quo, seems like it would be the perfect place for a tomato living in an onionized world. Yet I also recognize that the coming time will be a challenge. I will be confronting new ideas, new situations, and new fears, and will have to assimilate these experiences without changing the fabric of my mind. I will have to keep my vision of the world fresh and open, and not succumb to the hardening of established ideas, or onionizing, that I see occurring around me all the time.In the end, it is possible that tomatoes and onions do have something in common: a comfort in the usual way of doing things, a resistance towards change. These next four years will be a shock for me, as I explore new intellectual realms and my mind continues to mature. And although I will never stop being a tomato, I hope that college will at least help me to ripen a bit.Teaching My Elementary School TeacherMrs. Kanfer was the reason why I liked fifth grade. Some mornings she would march into the classroom with a stern look on her face and sit quietly down at her desk. We all knew what this meant: we were in trouble. Everyone would scramble to get to their seats, fold their hands in their laps, and get busy on some kind of work. After about a minute of silence, just when the tension in the air was palpable, she would move just a little. Kids would fidget and shake their knees, preparing themselves for a scolding. And then, out of nowhere, she’d cross her eyes, put her hands up at her ears, and make the funniest fish face we had ever seen. The classroom would erupt with laughter.Her enthusiasm carried over into her teaching. Social Studies, Science, and even Math were suddenly liberated from their musty old place in academia and brought into Ms. Kanfer’s colorful world of personalized worksheets, hands-on experiments, and engaging class discussions. For the first time ever, learning was not a task; it was something to look forward to. If any of us were lagging behind in a subject, Ms. Kanfer knew how to make us feel like it was our duty to catch up. She could be firm—even intimidating at times—but during her lessons, when it mattered most, she knew how to have a good time.I knew that no teacher could ever match up Ms. Kanfer. Yet interestingly enough, it was not until our second encounter, when I was 17 years old, that I realized how much she had inspired me.In my senior year of high school, I interned with the Town Clerk of North Hempstead, managing a research project on the history of the school system. There, I got the opportunity to work with original letters and documents from over a century ago. I was entrusted with a letter to the Great Neck Superintendent of Schools from the Nassau County School Commissioner, written in 1907 about enacting changes based on an 1874 law that mandated education for all children up to fourteen years old. I was also responsible for reviewing attendance records on the kids who were impacted by this law. Many times, a note from their parents was included, explaining that their child could not come to school because they could not afford shoes or because they needed him to look after his brothers and sisters. It was fascinating to see how the history I’ve learned about and in books applied to real people’s lives and to work with primary historical documents that many people do not get the chance to see.The challenge of the internship was that, when it was finished, I had to turn all of the documents I had reviewed into a presentation, which I would then deliver to an elementary school class. I spent weeks compiling data, creating visuals, and practicing my delivery.However, when all of my research was complete, I realized that I had only prepared my presentation in theory; I had never thought about how I would actually deliver the information, or the feeling I would get when I entered the classroom. With one day left in my internship, I began to panic. Not only was I unprepared, but I was having trouble mentally placing myself in the role of a teacher. What if I screwed something up? Would the kids notice? Would they laugh at me? Public speaking had never been my forte.The day of the presentation, I drove over to an elementary school I had never seen before, taking a few minutes to myself before exiting the car. “You can do this” I told myself. When I entered the school, I suddenly had a rush of nostalgia as I pictured myself back in Ms. Kanfer’s classroom, transfixed by her unique style of teaching. That was just the motivation I needed. When I entered the classroom, I immediately began imitating Ms. Kanfer’s style, greeting the students with great excitement but a note of authority in my voice.The presentation went over fabulously. At first the students seemed bored by the mention of “historical documents”; but when they were able to see how students in the 1890s were very similar to them except for the difficult conditions in which they lived, their features lit up with sympathy. Afterwards, I had the distinct feeling that my hard work had paid off. The positive input the students gave me encouraged me in knowing that my job was worthwhile.In fact, my presentation was so well-received that I got permission to give a similar talk at my own elementary school. This time, instead of teaching just one class, I had to teach all the fourth grade classes in the school in a filled auditorium. As I nervously set up the presentation and the number of people in the room grew, I looked up and saw Ms. Kanfer enter the room with her own class of fourth grade students. I got pins and needles for a moment as I realized that, after all these years, our roles had been reversed. For the next couple of hours, Ms. Kanfer became my pupil.Shadow BoxingI tighten my fists and narrow my eyes at the invisible enemy in front of me. The sweat drips from my face and soaks through my crisp white gi. I struggle to breathe as I have been taught - in through the nose and out through the mouth - and bounce to the music, anticipating the instructor’s shout.“Move!”My body springs into action. Backfist, reverse punch, front ball kick, hook, uppercut, double palm heel to the ribs. On the last strike I kiai with the rest of the students. Our yells fill the room, louder than the traffic outside and louder than the din from the stereo. The sound pounds inside my head. Drawing back, I assume the on-guard position. I am ready.Karate has been a part of my life since 1994. My mom had been encouraging me to take up martial arts ever since she realized that my tiny size would make me an easy target, but it wasn’t until seventh grade that I felt physically threatened and decided to sign up for karate classes. Although I no longer feel in danger at this school, karate has not gone the way of figure skating, horseback riding, and piano. It has stayed with me and become a part of my identity. I have paid for my brown belt with sweat and occasionally blood, with anxiety before tests, and with hours of exertion and exhaustion. My training has given me the ability to defend myself, a necessity for a four-foot-ten, slightly built woman entering the twenty-first century.But karate has left me with more than aerobic and defensive abilities. Because of my physical limitations, defending against an attacker does not come easily to me. I cannot count the number of times I have been unable to evade the plastic knife wielded by my opponent or the number of bruises I have received from fists, feet, and knees. My aversion to failure and reluctance to trying unfamiliar things are obstacles I face in other aspects of my life, obstacles that my experience with karate has helped me to overcome. It has taught me that when you get knocked down, you get up again and keep fighting. Karate has boosted my confidence too. I have sparred with a professional body-builder, and there’s nothing like the rush I get from bringing a 200-pound man to the floor!As we kneel and meditate before each class, the teacher instructs us to clear our minds and leave our problems of work, school, and family outside the dojo. At first I don’t think it’s possible to, for an hour, avoid worrying about the freshmen and where I need to tutor, the science project that isn’t finished, or the 6:45 AM flight I need to catch for this weekend’s debate tournament. But somehow, every time, I forget these concerns. For one hour, I am only a karateka, a warrior.The Smell of Fresh CoffeeI wake up every morning to its rich scent. My parents cannot start the day with out it. I often wait in line and pay $3.85 to buy it. The senior lodge at my school is littered with empty Starbucks cups containing only the remnants of skim lattes, , and mocha frapuccinos. Coffee is a staple of American life that many take for granted, but few take the time to think about how they get it.In the rural village of Cadillo in the Dominican Republic, the people’s livelihood depends on coffee. Rows of green coffee plants line steep hills and scatter the countryside. The people there pick and sell the coffee beans but receive little profit for their hard work.During the week I spent in Cadillo, I witnessed the poverty these coffee farmers endure. Their homes are small and dark, furnished with only a few wooden chairs, a table and a few beds. There is no lawyers and electricity in Cadillo and I especially remember the emptiness of the village at night, when I could only vaguely see the faces I illuminated with my flashlight. I can still see the shiny metal bowl in which they used to bathe, and Jose, a neighbor who was missing several teeth because like most people in Cadillo, he lacks a toothbrush and could not afford a sink.These images still burn in my mind, but it was the people of Cadillo more than anything who opened my eyes to the importance of social justice. Before I met them it was just a concept I heard about a few times a year at church when a missionary would come to speak about the poor people in Africa or South America and explain why it was our duty to help them. These people were far removed. A small fraction of my weekly allowance, once a year, and I could remove them from my mind. After living for a week with a family in Cadillo, however, I understood for the first time that it was real people leading these lives.The family I stayed with there took me in as part of their family and gave me a taste of their life. I remember my Dominican father, Barilla’s face as he played guitar and how he laughed kindly when I struggled to play the chords he had taught me. I could feel the warmth and sincerity of my Dominican mother, Marsela, when she sat and talked with me about my home and family after a long day of work. And I will always remember how much fun I had playing catch or blowing bubbles with their two children, Jendi and Andisco.I will not forget the images I saw or the people I encountered. They made me realize that my work does not end with the school I helped build, the holes I helped dig, or the roads I helped widen. They showed me that there are real, wonderful people being treated unjustly and that I cannot sit back and let that happen. I cannot be silent when I know that people are getting rich off the coffee Barilla receives so little for. It is my responsibility to be active, to teach what I have learned, to fight injustices in my community and the world.I am not sure if I will ever visit Cadillo again but I do know that I can continue what I started there. I can tell people what I saw and spread awareness about injustice in the world. I can volunteer in my own community to help make changes at home and fundraise to aid third world countries. And tomorrow, after I wake up to the smell of fresh coffee, I can make a difference.Citric ApplicationsMy mama always says, “If the good Lord gives you lemons, cut ‘em in half and put ‘em in your bra where they’ll do you some good.” Rhetorically speaking, I think that’s pretty sound advice. Well, the good Lord gave me was my height. All four feet and ten inches of it. Being a seventeen year old who can pass for a preteen does have its downsides. Having to stand on a box to see over the pulpit during my Bat Mitzvah was a bit of a pain. Finding clothes that fit and are not adorned with lace, frills, and dancing bunny rabbits is often a formidable task. Keeping myself from snapping at gas station attendants who repeatedly call me “little girl” takes considerable willpower. Despite these drawbacks, though, I have discovered that being vertically challenged has many advantages.Looking young provides financial benefits. Often, I am charged the children’s price at movie theaters and restaurants without even being asked my age. That seems fair; I don’t take up more room or eat more than your average twelve year old anyway. Besides, such discrepancies make up for all the times I have been barred from half the rides at amusement parks and getting yelled at because I wasn’t as tall as the mark on the sign.Shortness can also have a liberating effect in the romantic arena. Unlike my taller peers, I will never have to worry about a guy being intimidated by my height, nor will I be tempted to slouch to make myself seem a more suitable dance partner. Finding a mate who’s taller than me and one who can carry me across a threshold are also non-issues. When I go out, I won’t be constrained to flats for fear that high heels will cause me to tower over my date.If I want to go into sports, I don’t have to be seven feet tall to be in demand. My slight build would make me an excellent jockey. As a coxswain, too, my size would be an attribute. Controlling a boat and shouting orders to the rowers has a rather appealing sound.There are also professions where smallness would be a virtue. I’m thinking espionage. Incognito, I would be invincible. Who would suspect a cute little girl with pigtails of being an international spy? No one would think to search my lunchbox for stolen documents. My size would also make me well suited to work with children, perhaps as a pediatrician or a children’s rights lawyer. I might be better able to secure cooperation and trust from my patients or clients because of my non-threatening stature. My ability to fit into small places would also be beneficial if I were a firefighter or a member of a rescue squad.As you can see, there are many advantages to being under five feet tall. Don’t feel sorry for me because I can’t reach the cereal box on the top shelf at the grocery store. Instead, be glad I know how to use my lemons. ................
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