Sunday, April 8, 2018

A Family Education

            I can’t yet remember all their names. Give me some more time and I will. But my, I am glad I met them.
            During our Spring Break this past week, my parents brought my daughters, my wife and me to Ireland for a week. Most of the trip consisted of sightseeing, from Dublin, Galway and Belfast to the Giant’s Causeway, Cliffs of Moher and Dingle Peninsula. But toward the end of our trip, we gathered in a pub in Castlewellan, just outside Newcastle in Northern Ireland’s County Down. Greeting us were some 30 members of our family – people my dad had connected with in researching his family tree.
            He’d been at this for a while, and my parents had met several of these relatives before. My dad’s cousin Arthur, who lives in the U.S., has been his partner in research. They’ve shared family information, photos and discoveries. Several years ago, my parents had visited the Hynes homestead, grave site and stained-glass window, as well as the quarry where my dad’s grandfather, John Hynes, worked before emigrating from Ireland and becoming a well-respected granite worker in Brooklyn. But now, my dad was introducing these relatives to his own son and granddaughters.
            And they taught me so much in one night. From Thomas, I learned that it now costs more to sheer a sheep than it pays to sell the wool, so the family’s farming business now focuses on raising lambs to sell for meat. From Martin, I learned that the farm is a side job for most in Ireland, as it typically doesn’t pay enough on its own. From Peadar, who teaches Irish language classes and coaches Gaelic football, I learned that his secondary school doesn’t allow any smartphones or tablets in class.
            From Kathleen and Malachy, I learned how much life has improved in Belfast over the past two decades, as years of sectarian violence have given way to a booming tourism scene. From Mary, I learned that anniversary masses play a major role in many Irish families, as a means of honoring those who have died. And from young Odhrán, I learned a new nickname for our family, as seen on the back of his Gaelic football jersey: “Hynesey.”
            My dad was two generations removed from his ancestor who left Ireland. Now, the two generations following my dad have connected with those roots, just as he has. I’m a mutt whose ancestors emigrated from various European countries. I had met a couple of relatives from Iceland 40 years ago, and that’s been it. But now my older daughter is following her Irish cousin on Instagram, and I’m in a Hynes family Facebook message group.
            There are, of course, plenty of family members here in the U.S. whom I know and love, yet have not seen nearly enough of lately. In our ever-hectic lives, extended family members often find ourselves promising to get together more often than actually doing it. Then, someone passes and we see one another, wishing it were under better circumstances. The Hynes family members in Ireland expressed similar sentiments.
            But be that as it may, it was truly a special night. They walked into the pub, shook our hands, and introduced themselves. Family. Now I’ve met them. Not a bad education for one Spring Break. Thanks, Dad.

Friday, March 30, 2018

Talkin' Baseball

            The two Syrian men smiled at me from across the table. I was their ESL teacher on this Saturday morning, and they were ready to learn.
            We began with a review of basic conversation; I’d write down the phrases, and they’d repeat them out loud.
“How are you?” / “I’m fine, thanks. How are you?”
“Can I help you with anything?” / “Yes, I need a job.”
            We moved on to verbs (to be, to have) and nouns (desk, table, chair). I am an English teacher, which is not the same thing as an ESL teacher. Many of the regular ESL teachers at this refugee-assistance program were absent on this Saturday morning, as it was also the day of the March for Our Lives. So I was doing my best, and these men were working hard.
            At one point, I decided to write another conversation question on our yellow legal pad. It was a simple query:
“How about those Yankees?”
The men said the words aloud with me, but had no idea what they meant. I wrote down the word: “Baseball.” They pronounced it together: “beis – bol.” I asked them if they enjoy football, or soccer as we call it in the U.S. They said yes, they do. Baseball, I told them, is America’s original sport. Our national pastime.
            I showed them video clips from baseball games, and they were intrigued. We didn’t have time to review all the rules and terms, but I told them to keep an eye out for baseball. And if someone asks them “How about those Yankees?” or, dare I say, “How about those Mets?” I advised them to respond, “I hope they win this year.”
            It’s spring, and this weekend brings us the start of baseball. So dare to dream. Every team is technically in the pennant race as April approaches. It’s the season of opportunity.
            These two Syrian men didn’t know a thing about baseball, but they know a lot about starting over. They’re familiar with new seasons in life. They’ve lived that, for sure.
            We finished our ESL session, and one of the men gathered up the notes we’d written together on the legal pad. He tapped his pencil to the paper. “Baseball,” he said. That’s right, I told him. Baseball.

Friday, March 9, 2018

Thirty Minutes

            It was just 30 minutes. There and gone in an instant. But in a newsroom, so much can happen in a half-hour.
            On this Friday afternoon in March, after two snow days and a delayed opening, the student-reporters for our school newspaper hadn’t met since they’d sent out this week’s paper to the printer on Tuesday night – a half-day ahead of schedule, in preparation for the snow. The paper had been printed on Thursday, and we had somehow managed to get it in our hands and deliver it during our shortened Friday homeroom. But now, at 2:15 on a Friday, we had a half-hour to focus on the stories that lay ahead of us.
            Two of my students were hard at work on an in-depth inquiry into why so many schools in New Jersey and America are still segregated by race. Another two students were planning interviews for a story about the different positions parents take with regard to substance use by their kids. Still another pair were working on a follow-up story to our coverage of teens and e-cigarettes, with plans to interview adults who profit financially from teen use of these devices.
            Another student had written a first-person essay on what this school paper means to her, to be published in a new local magazine that had asked for contributions from us. And another student was working on the latest in her podcast series on immigration.
            And, of course, there were the sports. Two of our sports editors were creating a giant NCAA Tournament bracket on the staff whiteboard to keep track of the men’s basketball tourney throughout March Madness season. And they were planning to preview the games in our paper, along with a story on how the recent NCAA basketball scandal has impacted the outlook fans have toward the annual college tournament.
            Another student was taking photos, some to accompany the magazine piece, and others to be used for publicity. Publicity was in order because one of our staff members had just been named New Jersey High School Journalist of the Year, with a nice scholarship to go along with the honor.
            Still another student was preparing to cover the event taking place this Wednesday morning at high schools across the nation. The nationwide organizing body is calling it a “walkout,” while others are using different terms: remembrance, assembly, protest. Either way, it’s been prompted by the shooting in Parkland, Fla., and is part of the powerful student dialogue on gun control taking place around America. The student covering this event will have just an hour to write her story, as it’s taking place during our Wednesday morning deadline. She’ll follow that story by traveling to Washington, D.C., 10 days later to cover the nationwide march for gun control.
             So, as I was saying, 30 minutes. There’s a lot to do. A lot to talk about. A lot to plan. But my, that newsroom was humming. You could feel it.

Sunday, February 25, 2018

The Unarmed Teacher

            Most schools have not had shootings, but all schools have had students with struggles. These struggles range from family crises to student stress to mental illness to harassment and bullying. As a teacher, I know that part of my job is to be available and supportive to students who need to talk about their difficulties.
            That’s why I make sure my classroom is a safe and inviting place for students. My walls are covered with inspiring artwork, I welcome everyone who walks into the room, and I make sure my room is used for school clubs and activities, so there is always a bit of a buzz in the area as students come in and out to check in with me about after-school events.
            Over the years, it has never occurred to me that my room would be safer for students were I carrying a weapon. In fact, I am certain that the presence of a gun in my room would have deterred some students from stopping by to talk. A gun would not have added to the kind of emotional and physical security that these students sought. They wanted to learn from me, teach me something, talk with me, and enjoy the learning environment that we’d created together. They needed a smile, a song played in between classes, and photos on the wall depicting Malala Yousafzai, Lin-Manuel Miranda and Kermit the Frog. Not guns.
            There are some students and adults who argue that arming teachers would help bolster school safety, but these arguments fall short on many levels. For one, they lack clarity on where the guns would be stored, and how they would be accessible in moments of crisis. In addition, they fail to address our nation’s deep struggles with racial profiling, and how that might affect students and teachers of color. And they also don’t address how guns would make a classroom more inviting for that student who is struggling and needs to talk.
            Like many teachers, I have visualized what my actions would be should an active shooter enter my school. My thoughts have always been that I would do everything in my power to keep my students physically and emotionally safe. I’ve treated every lockdown drill seriously, and have taken the time for mental preparation. I’ve established in my mind that I would take a bullet to protect any student in my care.
            But holding a gun in my classroom would be different: It would require a major shift in my own demeanor, moving me from nurturance to enforcement. This shift would turn some kids away, and it would alter my own approach to the job. I can’t see a benefit in that. In fact, it seems to undercut the purpose of an educator, as part of the teacher’s job is to help students envision a more just and peaceful world. Our job is to help them see a way to make things better; adding guns to the classroom seems more like surrendering to the darker side of human nature. Teachers don’t specialize in despair; we prefer to work with hope.
            On Friday, about an hour after school had ended, a student of mine stepped in the room to talk. A family crisis had made it impossible for her to complete a story assignment for me, and her red eyes and tears revealed how upset she was about it. We talked it over, I listened and I did my best to offer words of support. There was no easy solution, and we’ll talk again tomorrow. But in that moment, she needed to hear from someone that it would be OK. I did my best to provide that.
            Nothing about this conversation would have been enhanced by the presence of a gun. As we consider measures to improve school security, let’s remember the true purpose of the teacher – as a source of instruction, guidance and encouragement. Teachers offer safety, but it’s not the kind of safety a weapon provides. It’s the kind that comes from the heart and mind. The kind we can’t live without.
            If we change our societal view of what we want from a teacher, we will have to live with the consequences. Because once you change it, there’s no going back.

Sunday, February 18, 2018

After Parkland

            My students are in the midst of a five-day weekend, and their well-deserved break began at about the same minute that a 19-year-old began shooting ex-classmates and staff at a high school in Parkland, Fla., on Wednesday. It soon became clear that this was another school shooting with multiple fatalities, yet also a shooting in which students had used their phones and social media platforms during the event to document for the world just what a school shooting looks and sounds like.

            I’m aware that nearly every media platform has been a forum for gun-control debate over the past four days, and I’m also aware that many students at this Florida high school have been speaking out, channeling their grief toward gun-control activism. It’s a teachable moment, so what does a journalism educator do?

            First, you respond to the messages you’re sent. The first journalism student who reached out to me about the shooting sent an email at 1:30 a.m. on Friday. She had stayed up late writing a powerful opinion piece about guns in America. I responded to tell her she had done what she needed to do, which was to get her words down on paper. I followed up with emails to the editor-in-chief and business managers to see if they were interested in adding more pages to next week’s paper, in order to cover this issue. They said they were up for it, and other students began volunteering to write and lay out pages for our coverage. My advice to the writers was to do what that first student had done – write what is on their minds. We’ll have time to do more reporting on this issue in the weeks ahead, but for now the kids seemed to need an outlet for their emotions.

I have witnessed the powerful emotions this debate produces. Twenty years ago, I was a reporter for the Staten Island Advance, and I was assigned to the gun-debate beat. School shootings were on the rise, and so were protests. I traveled with a group of protesters to Springfield, Mass., the home of gun manufacturer Smith & Wesson. The protesters placed pairs of shoes belonging to individuals who had died from gun violence in a local park, then traveled to Smith & Wesson’s headquarters to march.

One of those protesters had lost her husband to a gun murder, and she had become a nationwide leader in the cause. Another had lost her son when a neighborhood child got his hands on a gun left unattended in a home, and accidentally shot the young boy. This protester told me about her commute to work, and how it took her past the cemetery in which her son was buried. She would drive into the cemetery each morning, mourning her son’s death before continuing on her way to work.

I also interviewed gun advocates at the local sportsmen’s club. As they gathered for dinner and fellowship, these avid hunters told me what I’ve heard time and again over the past two decades: Guns don’t kill people; people kill people. I listened, took notes, and thanked them for their time.

The following year, two young men shot and killed many of their classmates at Columbine High School in Colorado, and now school shootings had become part of our national parlance. I interviewed Staten Island students who had been questioned in their schools because they, like the Columbine shooters, wore trench coats. They were confused as to what a coat had to do with gun violence. So was I.

Two months after Columbine, I left full-time reporting for full-time teaching. My working life, since the summer of 1999, has been devoted to teaching first, and writing second. I have taught writing skills to many students, and over the years the classrooms and schools in which I’ve taught have become more and more protected from the outside world. The Newtown, Conn., shootings of more than five years ago led to stricter security in schools across the nation. The school shootings, however, have continued.

At no time during these two decades have federal legislators passed any laws regulating the Second Amendment rights that Americans have. When nothing happened after Newtown, it seemed as though federal gun regulations were simply an impossibility. Now we have Parkland, with Snapchat videos documenting the violence. We have students appearing on the Sunday-morning talk shows to challenge their legislators.

As an educator, my job is typically to keep my own political views out of the classroom. My role is to ask good questions, support students in their journeys of discovery, and remain present for all voices that arise. I’ve had students conduct projects on safe gun use, in which they documented the ways in which they and their parents used guns safely at shooting ranges. I’ve also had students write passionately about the need for stricter gun control. And just a few months ago, I helped a student as she wrote a news story about her peers’ views on gun control, featuring students on both sides of the issue.

When we resume school on Tuesday, I will remain dedicated to helping my students feel safe and protected in finding their own voices on this issue. But I also want my students to feel safe and protected in the literal sense, and that’s where it becomes difficult for teachers like me to remain truly objective on this issue of school shootings and guns. I have a very hard time understanding why we can’t regulate a guaranteed right more closely. Full background checks, a national gun registry and bans on semiautomatic weapons seem like common sense to me. Laws like those passed in Connecticut after Newtown seem completely reasonable, and in keeping with the Second Amendment rights that many Americans treasure.

I’m happy to share those views with students if they ask. But back in the classroom, I will encourage them to talk and listen and find their voices. I am a teacher who views gun control as a must. But I am also a teacher who must support his students. I’ll start by encouraging my student-reporters to go after it, both in their opinion pieces and in their own reporting. Their peers in Parkland have experienced a nightmare, and instead of hiding their heads these teens are inviting us all to a serious and necessary conversation. I’m going to encourage my kids to take part.

Monday, February 12, 2018

Teacher Dad

            I had known for a few months that I’d be teaching my daughter. I just didn’t know what she should call me.
            Not Dad. And definitely not Mr. Hynes. Ideally, also not any of the names she might have mumbled under her breath throughout the past 16 years.
            But like it or not, here we were together. At my high school this year, I am the only journalism teacher. Katie goes to this school, and she wanted to take Journalism I. So on the first day of school, I looked out upon my class of ambitious young reporters, and among them I saw my own flesh and blood.
            I introduced the class to them, talked about my own journalism experience, and asked them if they could identify the terms “journalism,” “news” and “media.” They were interested, and we were on our way.
            At some point in that first class period, Katie raised her hand. “What should I call you?” she asked.
            I thought to myself, “Didn’t I have an entire summer to think this over?” I did, and I had not considered it. Searching for an answer, I flashed back to my previous job, an alternative school in Boston at which I had taught for three years. At that school, teachers were called by their first names, to deepen the sense of community among students and staff. “That will work,” I thought to myself.
            “OK,” I said to the students, who were actually quite interested in where this was going, “I don’t want Katie calling me ‘Mr. Hynes’ in class, so I’m going to give everyone in this class complete permission to call me ‘Warren.’ ”
            The kids smiled; some of them even let out a “Yes!” or a fist pump. When class ended, one of the students walked up to Katie and said, “Man, I really thought he was going to say that we could all call him ‘Dad.’ ”
            Over the next few weeks, a few students tried out “Warren” to see how it felt, and they ended up going back to Mr. Hynes. As for Katie, it’s kind of a funny thing; she calls me “Warren” all the time at home, along various other “W” first names, such as Wally and Wendell. That’s all done in a loving attempt to get under my skin. I can handle it, as I’d much rather she call me by a nickname than not talk to me at all.
            At school, though, she really couldn’t avoid “Dad.” It just came out that way, even in class. In moments when life is busy and stressful – which school can often be – we need to call our parents what they are to us. I’m Katie’s dad, and her brain couldn’t take the time to consider my first-name suggestion. She just needed me to be her father.
When school was over, and she was Face-Timing a friend on the phone while I walked by, it was back to “Hello, Warren.” When I called her down to dinner, she’d respond with “Yes, Warren.” But during those journalism classes, she’d call me over with a question by waiting until I walked past her desk, then whispering, “Dad.”
We made it through the semester-long class in one piece, and now she’s off to other activities. But as the second semester began, I scanned the rosters for my spring blog writing class and saw something even more terrifying than teaching my daughter.
I’m now teaching her boyfriend. 

Sunday, January 21, 2018

We Get the Job Done

            It happens every time, I’m sure. But this was our night to see it. As two men rap six short words, a Broadway show is drawn to a halt mid-song by the audience’s response; actors and orchestra wait out the cheers before continuing.
My wife and I were celebrating our daughters’ birthdays (16 and 13) by taking them to see Hamilton, the smash-hit show whose soundtrack they’d been listening to for many months. Who would think that the perfect Sweet 16 gift would be a hip-hop Broadway show about a Founding Father?
            Toward the end of Act One, the cast performs the electrifying song “Yorktown (The World Turned Upside Down),” in which they depict the Revolutionary War’s final conquest. When Alexander Hamilton and Marquis de Lafayette meet on the battlefield, they can see that victory is at hand. As they open the song, the two men use their shared experience as outsiders to America (Hamilton hails from the British West Indies, Lafayette from France) to explain their success. “We’re finally on the field. We’ve had quite a run,” Hamilton says. Lafayette responds with one word: “Immigrants,” to which Hamilton joins him in rapping, “We get the job done.”
            That’s when the audience starts roaring. They know that when Lin-Manuel Miranda wrote these six words, he wasn’t just talking about the immigrants of 1781; he was, of course, arguing that immigrants are still getting the job done in America as we speak.
            Debates over immigration have dominated American discourse throughout the past year, and it doesn’t seem to be letting up. As I review the news accounts of our immigration debates, I think back to my experiences as an educator. In my 19 years as a full-time teacher, I’ve worked with many immigrant students. Some were in my classroom because their parents had fled violence in countries such as Kosovo, Ethiopia, Venezuela and Afghanistan. Others were there because their parents were hoping for better opportunities than they had in Vietnam, Nigeria, South Korea, the Dominican Republic or Haiti. Still others were here because their parents had taken job opportunities, moving their families here from China, France, Egypt or Canada.
            I’ve taught a Dreamer who went from the top of her high school class to babysitting because she couldn’t apply for admission to college. I’ve taught a teen who worked 12-hour graveyard shifts at a parking garage before coming to school. I’ve welcomed students into my school’s Community Service Club from Haiti, Iran, Venezuela and China, all of them looking for opportunities to serve. In recent months, I’ve watched my service club students volunteer their time at a program that serves refugee families, most of them from Syria and Iraq.
            Whenever a student from a new country arrives in my high school in central Jersey, inquisitive American students pepper that student with questions: What was it like growing up in your native country? What’s the difference between there and here? How are you doing with schoolwork? Have you been to Manhattan? When it started snowing one December day a few years back, a student of mine from Egypt told me she’d never seen snow before. Without hesitation, the entire class led her outside, where she looked upward, spread out her arms and caught all the snowflakes she could.
            I think the American students are so eager to learn from their immigrant peers because they understand something fundamental about this country: Immigration is a sign of our nation’s overall health. When people want to come to America, it means that our country is doing some things right. It means that the freedoms, economic opportunities and sense of community we’ve built are inspiring people from around the world. It means that our tradition of welcoming others has built us a level of global respect that is beyond measure. It means that for every individual who takes advantage of America, there are countless others who are giving America even more than they’ve gotten. So when you see a new student from another country in your class, it’s a sign that you were blessed with your place of birth. And you’re willing to share that blessing with others.
            This is the way it’s gone in this New World for four centuries now. I hope that as we debate the specifics of immigration laws, we find a way to hold onto this idea, which a certain copper statue in New York Harbor tries to remind us of every day.
            When the audience finishes cheering for that line in Hamilton, the song resumes. “So what happens if we win?” Hamilton asks. “I go back to France,” Lafayette says. “I bring freedom to my people if I’m given the chance.”
            And that’s the other thing about immigration: When people have the chance to see America up close, it also can give them the motivation to bring that torch of liberty back home. But when we wall ourselves off from the world, that chain reaction becomes impossible.
            So as the government debates continue on, I’m going to follow the instincts of my students, the words of Hamilton, and the observations I’ve made over two decades of teaching.
            It really is true. Immigrants, and those who welcome them: Together, we get the job done.