spices’ solace
There’s loss when someone isn’t able to provide what you need. They’re still alive, heart pumping and no ones dead. But there is a death. A death of what could be, what isn’t, what is and how it doesn’t quite fit right.
There’s loss when the vision of a future isn’t present. A small seed of disappointment lodged in the throat and you find it hard to keep swallowing sustenance. Working around the parts of ourselves / systems / ideologies that get in the way.
And then without expectation, an exercise called How to be of Service, gains traction. A four page PDF you created near midnight in honor of the attacks on Ukraine among the many wars of injustice, both personal and political, sits in the Canvas platform for your Parsons students to explore during their Spring break. You go to bed at night almost playing it down; preparing yourself for them not to complete it. A little too emotional. Not University protocol. Not even the supportive lovely faculty cohort wanted to call it an assignment or build it into the curriculum. Make it optional. And it was.
And yet.
And yet, student’s responses filled the assignment page with a kind of love that sheds silent tears.
A student gave his ear and heart to a friend struggling with addiction. A student checked in with three friends from Ukraine and listened. A student created propaganda posters exhibiting the difference between China and America’s response to COVID, and how she felt somewhere in the middle. A student created a mini film on Black Lives Matter and the impact of racism on health. A student donated money to World Central Kitchen and informed her family to do the same. A student created positive affirmation cards for friends in their Queer community to remind them of their inherent beauty despite any discrimination. A student cooked food and celebrated being Chinese with her friends in response to physical and verbal harassment they have received while in America since the COVID pandemic. A student collaged images of Russians protesting the attacks on Ukraine and receiving arrest with the clear message that this is not a nation-wide Russian supported war. A student illustrated an alternative reality for a girl who faces abuse.
Vulnerable complex multidimensional stories unraveled raw emotions like sap tapped from a tree. Together we dripped like syrup. There is no grade for your influence as teacher. There’s no one at the end of the day that awards you a gold star. There’s no applause. No stocks that go up. No popped bottles of champagne. But sometimes when I see the stretch of kindness and the depth of creative care that my students express, like they did in this non-assignment, then I feel like I did something that day. And I say this, because that something isn’t mine.
The measure of success isn’t money when you’re in debt. The measure of success isn’t followers when you have none. The measure of success isn’t a New York Times Bestseller or a diamond ring. It’s not that I don’t want those. It’s that my job is to replace the seed of apathy with empathy. And you can’t measure evolutionary growth with capital gain.
It can be a kind of spice that doesn’t easily digest. Be it 11 or 19 years old, we’re competing with TikTok. Snapchats of instant gratification and floods of desensitizing stimulation. I gave a 5th grader his very own journal to reflect in today and he asked if he can use use his iPad.
And yet.
And yet, I used instagram to invite an incredibly successful artist, through a neighborhood connection, to our school in Bedstuy and he responded with Yes. That artist, Nathaniel Mary Quinn, captivated the hearts and minds of our 7 to 12 years old who sat with total presence for over 60 minutes engaged in a live conversation between him and I. Mr. Quinn got up from his seat, got real, and got in an improvisational flow with some 75 people spilling out the room. Kids were awing, adults were Amening.
Students asked, when did you know you were an artist? Students asked, when you get angry how do you still make art? Students asked, were you sad when your family left? Students asked, what does empathy mean to you?
My reward at the end of the day is being able to cry alone. The solace that’s felt when the spider finishes spinning a web for others’ emotional enrapture and is able to watch from a distance how they weave their own connection.
This is the world of dichotomy. Of both. And. A dot connector trying to veer disappointment.
Photo: Nepal, 2012
ALISON SCHUETTINGER
APRIL 5, 2022