deep

Today I had one of those moments when your heart feels so full, you almost can’t process everything you’re feeling.  I was sitting in Columbus Park, which is next to Cadman Plaza in downtown Brooklyn; the sun was shining, I had a new book on my lap but had lost my place because I couldn’t focus on the words…just a block away I could see the reddish facade of the Brooklyn Historical Society, and to my right was the statue of Henry Ward Beecher, with the supplicant (or grateful?) slave at his feet…I watched Skip Gates’ special last night, Looking for Lincoln, and folks were reconsidering similar statues of Lincoln that show him as “the Great Emancipator,” bestowing “the gift of freedom” upon enslaved blacks.  But freedom’s not a gift–it’s a right, isn’t it?  And like most abolitionists, Lincoln didn’t believe in racial equality–he just knew it was expedient to end slavery.  And that’s no small feat, having that kind of radical political consciousness in the 19th century.  But Gates was depressed by the realization that his hero wasn’t really a saint.  I don’t look for saints in history; I look for complicated, competing versions of the truth.  I don’t believe in letting bigots off the hook just because they’re “a product of their age,” but I was intrigued by Gates’ emphasis on myth-making and the ways the American imagination caught hold of Lincoln and refused to let go.  We really only know ourselves by examining the stories we tell…earlier in the day I walked for several blocks in Bed-Stuy–how can I explain being in love with architecture?  being seduced by stoops, and cornices, and stone that has weathered more than a century of sun, and wind, and rain?  You won’t believe me perhaps, but it is almost Valentine’s Day, so why not talk about my first love?  I’ve never loved any place–or person–the way that I love Brooklyn.  As I often say, “Brooklyn is my heart.”  Ever since I first visited NYC as a child, I’ve been mesmerized by brownstones; I grew up in a townhouse, so I wasn’t surprised by the idea of row houses, but I had never imagined anything like the grandeur of Brooklyn’s brownstones.  I remember being in Toronto as a recent college grad and seeing a b&w photograph of a group of young, hip black folks sitting on a stoop somewhere–I’m not even sure it was NYC.  But I recall wanting to insert myself into that photo–I wanted to be part of that scene.  And then I was: I moved to Brooklyn, joined a youth collective, started working with kids, and spent day after day walking through the borough, marveling at my life.  Feeling so *proud* that I had become part of the history of this place.  I’ve been in Bed-Stuy a lot lately, and every time I return I get that same feeling of wonder, awe, joy, and gratitude.  How did *I* get to be here, to live *this* particular life?  I think about visiting the BHS back in ’98 when I was teaching in an afterschool program in Bed-Stuy; I was working with a group of 7th-grade girls, and I wanted them to feel the POWER that comes from knowing history–knowing it, claiming it, writing it.  That was ten years ago, and now I’m out in world, trying to convince people to give Wish a try.  I don’t know what kind of impression I made at this morning’s meeting, but I left feeling so grateful just for the chance to talk to other educators who are MAD about books!  Maybe I never realized just how much time I spend alone, b/c sometimes being out in the world is a revelation!  I’m gradually developing an online community, but there’s nothing like sitting in a room filled with people who love books and are determined to get young people hooked on reading…even just seeing this middle school’s library brought back memories of my own “crush” on books when I was a teen.  It’s all preparation.  Everything we feel and live and believe and try–it’s all preparation for the work we’re meant to do.