My family was very poor. We lived in housing projects for a few years and bought groceries with food stamps. Other times we stayed in cheap motels or with strangers and got our groceries from the Salvation Army. As my father tried to find work, we moved around a lot, always thinking the next place would be better. I went to over twenty different schools before I finally dropped out when I was sixteen.

I hated being poor. I thought life should be like I saw on TV but there were not very many shows that resembled anything like what I was living. My parents taught me that when I grew up the only way I would not have to be poor was if I got an education. My father told me that President Eisenhower had made a law that gave grants to poor people so they could go to college. As young as 9 years old, I dreamed of getting good grades and going to college.

Changing schools was never easy but was especially tough when the move came in the middle of a school year because schools don’t usually follow the same calendar and teach different subjects. The first time we moved in the middle of the year was when I was in second grade. In my old school I had always kept up with what was taught. I was confident and happy at school.
The first day at my new school the teacher asked everyone to get out their pencil and paper. She told us to write our names in the top right corners and answer the math problems she wrote on the board. I carefully printed my name and watched her write out the problems.

But what she wrote did not look like math. There were numbers I recognized but along with the numbers were shapes that I did not understand. I remember feeling embarrassed and frustrated as all the other students began working the problems and I could only write my name. The teacher took some extra time and sat with me. She explained that the signs meant “greater than” and “less than”, but I didn’t understand those words. When she told me to think of them as bird beaks and to point the bird toward whichever number was more, I understood. With a big smile I worked through all the problems and turned in my paper.

A couple of years later, my uncle and aunt sent me a calculator as a Christmas present. It was shaped like an owl and had math games programmed into it. I played with it all the time and loved to get to the next level of each game after answering different questions by adding, subtracting, multiplying, dividing, and finding patterns.

I showed the game to my older brothers who were in high school. They said those kind of questions were easy and warned me that in high school the math was really hard. My brother Richard showed me his math book. The pages of numbers, shapes, and symbols were mysterious and intimidating.

Soon after that my family moved again in the middle of a school year. This time I did not have a problem keeping up. I had developed the ability to catch on quick when teachers began covering material I had not seen. I could often guess at what I needed to know or figure it out by their examples.

But I did have a problem making friends. It was late in the school year and the other 6th graders already had tight friend groups. In class I felt comfortable because I could focus on the lesson. But during less structured times, such as recess and lunch, I felt isolated and sad because I did not have my friends. One day as the class walked in a line to go to lunch I got the idea to slip away and go into one of the rooms in the hallway outside the cafeteria.

The room I slipped into was the school library. In my old school my teacher had often given individual students hall passes to go to the library to pick out a book. So I pretended that I had a pass and started searching the shelves for a book to read during the lunch break.

I thought about college and how if I had an education I could find a job and not have to worry about paying rent or moving around. But I remembered the warning Richard had given me about how hard math would be when I got to high school. I wasn’t sure if I could learn it all. What if I couldn’t? What if I failed and couldn’t go to college?

I decided to “study ahead” so that I would be ready for high school. Looking through the shelves I found a musty old book that had “Mathematics” written across its spine. As I think about the book now, I’m not sure it was even a children’s book. The book was probably for teachers because it talked about the difficulty students had first learning algebra. The book said that students could become confused and frustrated the first time seeing letters used in the same way numbers are used. I made a mental note not to be confused the first time a teacher showed me letters and numbers together.

Outside the door I saw my class lining up in the hall to go back to our room. I put the algebra book back on the shelf and stepped into line. Everyday for the rest of the year I would slip out of line just outside the cafeteria and go into the library. As a new student, the teacher wasn’t used to seeing me at lunch and never noticed I was missing. I read the algebra book and learned that “x” was called a “variable”. I learned how to “solve for x” by adding, subtracting, multiplying, or dividing “both sides” of the “equation”.

My family moved again but this time the school did something different. They gave me a placement test to see what classes I should go to. I did well on the math portion, thanks to spending my lunch breaks in the library, and was put into a pre-algebra class for seventh graders. This was one of my favorite classes. The teacher taught us word problems using real life examples. My favorite examples involved pizza.

But soon we moved again. The school I transferred to did not have a pre-algebra class, so I was put into the regular algebra class with eighth graders. But that meant I was a grade behind everyone else and none of my peers from my other classes were in there. It was difficult for me, but I managed to keep up with the work…until we moved again.

During seventh grade I transferred schools about five times. Each time I came to a new school they would give me a placement test to figure out where I was supposed to go. Often my records from one school would not arrive at the new school until I had already left. I was able to keep up with the lessons mostly, but making friends and socializing was becoming more and more difficult. I was beginning to hate school and stopped caring about going to college.

I came up with a plan. Since every new school gave me a placement test when I first arrived, and the placement tests told them what classes I should be put in, I figured that if I didn’t answer any of the questions on the test correctly then they wouldn’t put me anywhere. At the next school I transferred to, Dwyer Middle School in Huntington Beach, California, I filled out the bubbles on the placement test randomly and quickly.

My plan didn’t work out exactly how I hoped. Dwyer Middle School did find a place for me. I was put where schools too often put students who don’t make good grades or score high on tests: special ed.

In remedial math I sat in the back of the room. The teacher sat behind his desk at the front of the class, reading his newspaper. Everyday before class he would write twenty math problems on the board, usually two-digit addition or subtraction. At the beginning of class he would work one example problem and then tell us to solve the rest. Then he would sit back down at his desk and continue reading his paper. The only time he would speak for the rest of class was if the chatter among students got too loud. Not once that entire year did I see him teach anybody anything. I never even saw him try.

I would do all the math problems in less than five minutes. That gave me time to talk and play with the other boys, as long as we did not get too loud. At first I thought we were all enjoying “free time” after our work was done. But then I noticed that none of my friends had any thing written on their papers except their names. Even as a teenager who was “angry at the world”, I knew something was wrong. But there was nothing I could do about it then. That experience motivates me today to be the best teacher I can be and make sure all children have a chance to learn.

My parents never caught on to my “placement test” scam, but the school did. The next year I was put back into grade-level classes.

My family continued to move. As a way to make friends and find a place where I belonged, I started using drugs. Getting good grades was not socially acceptable with the group I became part of, so I stopped doing homework. Then when I was sixteen I dropped out.

I worked as a dishwasher and then as a line cook. It was a good job that offered me enough money to live and a sense of camaraderie among the other kitchen staff. Being a cook was like being part of a family and gave a sense of value to my life.

After a few years my mother said I should get my GED. I told her I didn’t need to. I was happy as a cook and didn’t want to go to college.

She said that I could just get my GED and I didn’t have to go to college.

To satisfy her I took the GED test. And a few months later my diploma arrived in the mail. I showed it to my mom.

She said I should take my college entrance exams. Again I told her I was happy working in kitchens and was not going to college.

She said I could just take the test but it didn’t mean I had to go to college.

So to satisfy her I took the ACT exam. A few months later my results came in the mail. I had a hard time reading through all the paperwork, but it soon became clear to me that I had scored pretty high and was going to college.

The next week I went to the financial aid office at the University of Kentucky to find out about those grants my father had told me of. The counselor said I was too late to get aid for that year and would have to come back next year. I’ll never forget the surprised look on his face 10 months later when I walked back into his office. He was surprised and happy at the same time. He helped me fill out all the necessary forms.

I decided to be an engineer. I wanted to build bridges and skyscrapers. I talked to my advisor. I explained that I had scored only 30% on the math portion of the ACT. But I said I had been pretty good in math before dropping out of high school. I wanted to know if I should take a trigonometry class before taking calculus. He assured me that there was no trig in Calculus.

He was wrong. My first semester, I failed Calculus along with most of my other courses. But I was determined.

That summer I took a trig course and repeated calculus. Since the trigonometry would be used by the second week in the calculus course, I had to teach myself by reading the textbook. By the end of the summer I had gotten an A in calculus and a B in trig.

With only a couple of exceptions I continued to get A’s in my math classes. And after my first year I started to make friends at college. Most of my friends were Malaysian students also studying engineering. My friends and I would study together all night during the week, and drink together all night on the weekends. During our drinking sessions we would often argue about mathematic principles and debate Zeno’s Paradox or Pi as a number. I had found a group of friends who not only accepted me, but who also valued academics. Without my friends, I would have dropped out or flunked out by my second year.

The mathematics I learned in college started to have a deep influence on me. Not only was I learning information such as formulas and algorithms, but also the way I thought about the world and life began to change. As I studied complicated formulas that showed how relationships between variables interacted, I realized that complicated relationships were possible in all areas of life. I made connections between the math I was learning and other parts of my life, including personal relationships with friends, family, and myself. It was as if the possibilities in mathematics were opening up possibilities in all areas of life.

A year before I graduated most of my friends finished school and returned home to Malaysia. It was a devastating time for me. Literally all my friends were on the other side of the world. I didn’t know anyone in my engineering classes and the schoolwork was becoming more challenging. My grades began to suffer and my attitude toward school was apathetic. With only one year left to graduate I walked out of school during the middle of the Spring semester. I just quit.

I found a job working with computers, a skill I had picked up in college. After a summer break I started taking evening classes to finish my degree, but I wasn’t in a hurry. I had no desire to be an engineer and was no longer interested in learning. I just wanted to live a life like what I had seen on TV as a child.

That was almost ten years ago. Since then I have finished my undergraduate degree and completed a master’s degree. I’ve gone through many life and career changes. And every time I switched direction and took up a new challenge, I found that my training in mathematics was an invaluable resource. I was able to see subtleties in relationships with clarity and precision. The self-discipline I had developed learning calculus was like a muscle that I could use to tackle any obstacle.

Now as a math teacher I hope to help students develop their math muscles and learn the skills I have learned. Learning mathematics is beneficial no matter what career direction a person takes. As a math teacher I will help students understand the value of learning math. I believe developing a mathematical understanding will help students succeed in school and all areas of their lives.

I was welcomed by my dear friend Isha and will be staying at her place for a week or so. She gave me a hug, helped me with my bags, and offered me juice. We talked a while, then she said she wanted to take me somewhere special.

After a short walk through Spanish Harlem and a ride on the 2-train, we met her brother Sanjog near Central Park. She took both of us to Strawberry Fields to show us the mosaic in the sidewalk with the word: “IMAGINE”. She quoted John Lennon and Mahatma Gandhi, saying that this special place reminds her that she’s not the only one and to be the change she wants to see in the world.

Isha was in the Peace Corps for two years, living on a small island in the Republic of Kiribati. For as long as I’ve known her, she has been caring, kind, and dedicated to service and helping others. But now to hear her speak about her Peace Corps experience and how she’s changed as a person I get a sense of tremendous compassion and open heartedness.

We walked through the park, passing a small lake, a bandshell, rollerskaters, a circle of drummers, dancers, and a small carnival with rides. The late afternoon light made everything look magical, or maybe my own imagination lent magic to the scene, or maybe Central Park is just a magical place.

We walked by several statues of writers, each seated with pen in hand. The only name I recognized was Robert Burns. I resolved to look him up on wikipedia. I wondered which modern writers might have a statue in the park in a hundred years? Amiri Baraka? Miguel Algarin? Sonia Sanchez?

I am so excited to be in this city. As Isha put it, New York encompasses the whole world. But it doesn’t reflect the world, it is it’s own unique place.

Everyone is here. Anything seems possible.

Today I found the university I will be attending: Pace University right by the Brooklyn Bridge. I have some paperwork to do, but other than that my day is free.

Breathe. I am a human being. I am a member of the human community.

The opening act was The Egyptian Lover who kicked it old school. Hiphop has been around for a few decades now. There is a history. Very cool to experience some of that history. And you know when a brother been making music for 25 years, he’s learned a few things, improved on a few things, picked up some more technique. He delivered a nice set of electro-funk and the crowd was into it.

When M.I.A. came out she took charge of the stage. I’m not sure how best to describe her show. It’s hiphop and world music. It’s political but not preachy. It’s smart and real.

There was a moment in the middle of the show that really captures what M.I.A. is to me. At one point she asked all the women in the audience to get on the stage. The song was 10 Dollar. It was kind of surreal to see a stage full of women and girls from Denver dancing to a song about a child prostitute in Sri Lanka who becomes a mail-order bride.

Then she invited the boys onto the stage. By this time the police and security were pushing people back from the stage. Not nearly as many men went up. I didn’t even try. But some did make it on the stage and danced to the song Boyz, a song about child soldiers. The chorus goes:

How many no money boys are crazy
How many boyz are raw
How many no money boyz are rowdy
How many start a war

Considering that her first album had the song Pull up the People, Pull up the Poor, M.I.A. knows what’s up.

First thing I did was search craigslist.org for summer housing in NYC. I need a room for June and July. Finding housing in NYC is a challenge, but there are some pretty good leads out there. I’m not picky on location, as long as I’m near a subway.

The next thing I did was work in my notebook. I used a brainstorming technique called mind mapping or clustering. In the center of the page I wrote a word (the setting for my next project) with a circle around it. Next, I drew a line from that circle and wrote a new word. From the second word I drew another line with a new word. I continued this process, starting over when I got stuck, until I ran out of ideas.

I have lots of ideas about this next project, but still no “story”. I don’t yet have a central conflict. But I have lots of ideas. Maybe too many ideas, if that’s possible.

Actually I think its that I have ideas for different projects and I’m not sure where to go from here. One idea is a sort of literary novel similar (in some ways) to the manuscript I’m currently sending to agents. Another idea is a science-fiction project dealing with slavery, historical oppression, and identity. Another idea is a sort of mix with the setting being the contemporary world that includes a computer-based virtual world, that also would deal with identity.

It’s good to have several ideas percolating, but the difficulty is focusing on one without shutting down the others. Because I’ve noticed that whenever I “shut down” an idea, any idea, my entire creative process very quickly comes to a grinding halt. There’s a balance, just like in meditation practice.

At work I was talking to one of my co-workers about it. He grew up in Chicago and showed me where he’d been shot when he was a teenager.

Listening to the the radio show I could really feel for these families: a father who lost his son, a daughter who lost her father. And I could almost see the boys and men who’d pulled the trigger, their hearts so small and scared, their minds so twisted and confused.

A man who works with young people in Harlem spoke about seeing a group of kids walking to the schoolyard to fight. One of the them, he said, had a gun in his belt and all the adults around ran scared. He said that is the problem, children see the adults are scared and it inflates their sense of power beyond their ability to make good choices.

I know this is what I’m stepping (back) into when I move to NYC. I’m sure teaching in The Bronx is going to be tough, everyone says it is. But just living in NYC can be tough.

I remember the first day coming to New York, on the freeway stuck in traffic, two lanes over, seeing a couple in the front seat fighting, and seeing a boy in the back seat looking out at all the cars like what are we going to do?

And that was just the first day…

Most of the time, like in that case, there was nothing I could do. But there were a couple of times when I could do something. And I did. I spoke up. In both cases I helped chill out the situation at least a little.

I found out I passed my NYSTCE teacher exams. Everyday I’m feeling more and more excited about going to New York. But I’m also nervous.

Reminds me of something I learned about riding motorcycles. If you are totally scared of motorcycles, then it’s not safe to ride one. And if you’re not scared at all of motorcycles, then it’s not safe. You got to have a healthy respect.

“Ask yourself, must I write?; and if you cannot answer yes, then maybe you should not write. Maybe you’re not a writer.”

So I’ve been asking myself that question: Must I write? At this very moment, must I write? It reminds me of a Shambhala teaching on the primoridal dot:

There’s always the primordial dot: that spark of goodness that exists even before you think. We are worthy of that. Everybody possesses that unconditioned possibility of cheerfulness, which is not connected purely with either pain or pleasure. You have an inclination: in the flash of one second you feel what needs to be done. It is not a product of your education; it is not scientific or logical; you simply pick up on the message. And then you act: you just do it.

Asking myself the question, Must I write? is like sitting with the primordial dot, experiencing the moment that comes just before writing…or even thinking.

I have the beginnings of an idea for a novel: a setting and some characters. It’s been in my head for a few months. I’ve even done some research: reading Strip City and listening to podcasts of adult film stars.

But I don’t have a story yet, so I don’t have anything to write.

The challenge is to relax into the experience of primoridal dot but also to keep a momentum going forward. As my mentor, James Baker Hall once told me, writing fiction is not like writing poetry. With poetry it might sometimes work to sit and wait for inspiration. But with writing fiction that never works. Even when there’s nothing to write, you have to “prime the pump”.

So I bought a spiral notebook, a place where I can record some of this primordial dot experience…a pre-writing space. I’ve made notes about the setting, even drew a map. Today, I made a chart of some different characters.

Not sure what else will go in there. And I’m not sure how I will make use of this notebook after I transition into the actual writing. But that’s okay, it feels like the right balance and is exactly what I need to be doing at this moment.

She had some news: The cops who shot 23 year old Sean Bell (on the day before his wedding!!!!) were found not guilty. They shot him 50 times.

There is so much sadness, all too familiar loss. This is how it happens. This is how its been happening for hundreds of years. How much longer will it be this way?

I only went to the Bronx a few times when I was living in NYC, as a volunteer with homeless children. But what I saw of the borough I really liked. The streets were wide and there were many parks. Of course, my experience may have been skewed since I was helping to take the children on outings to parks.

I don’t know if I will be in the South Bronx, exactly. But since I used to chant along to KRS-One and BDP, I really really hope so.

Wow! I’m going to be teaching and living in the place where hiphop came from.

Nice.

The first two lectures give an overview of 2500 years of dharma art history. When the Buddha was alive he told his followers not to make any art with his image. For the first few hundred years his instructions were followed and Buddhist art were primarily meditation sites, like stupas. Then things changed and people started to make statues of the Buddha. DePaoli discusses this change and other changes as Buddhism spread into various cultures.

This discussion was interesting and informative. But in the third and fourth lecture, she begins talking about western art. Her thesis for this talk (and I presume for her book is that for the past 100 years western art has been dharma art.

As many people know Henri Matisse and Vincent Van Gogh studied Japanese Zen art. But who would have guessed that Marcel Duchamp kept a library of dharma texts? And I had no idea thatJames Rosenquist (who’s paintings I found so I found so moving during a 2003 visit to the Guggenheim Museum) visited Naropa’s Summer Writing Program?!

DePaoli’s discussion has not only made some things more clear to me about contemporary art, but also affirmed some of my own creative intentions/choices.

Last week while listening to wzen.org I came across a new podcast that is worth sharing. The Fancy Broccoli Show combines music and discussion of prison reform. So far I listened to the Ron Hayes interview from 2007. I was very moved by his story, dedication, and wisdom.

One of the important things Mr. Hayes is working on concerns PTSD among people in US prisons. He talks about the link between PTSD and drug use (aka self-medication). And near the end he reads some of his own poetry.