You Need To Breathe
Morf Morford
©
Copyright 2024 by Morf Morford
|
Photo courtesy of the
author. |
There’s
two kinds of teachers in the world; those who batter and intimidate
with their “knowledge” and others who are, at the most
basic level, learners and listeners and live to share what they know.
Real
learning is not always comfortable; wide reading and open-minded
listening means to encounter, respectfully, opinions and sources that
have not been encountered before – and that may not be welcome,
appreciated or even understood.
Like
many foods, and a fair amount of music or art, some ideas or
perspectives are an “acquired taste”.
Many
ideas are uncomfortable, and may take some getting used to.
Individual
human nature does not change easily – and social change, from a
local neighborhood to a regional or national identity may take
decades or longer to change.
But
change does happen – sometimes dramatically.
What
was once, perhaps for centuries, acceptable, even routine, sometimes
suddenly, becomes appalling and intolerable.
Personal
and social reflection and turning (or returning) is never smooth. In
fact it might be ragged, uneven and sometimes terrifying.
Our
individual, ethnic and national identity is often tied to agreed upon
legends, values and principles. How any given nation has (or has not)
achieved its own ideals is a constant theme of most histories.
How
any one of us has (or has not) achieved our own ideals is a constant
theme of most memoirs, biographies and autobiographies.
As
mentioned above, learning is rarely comfortable, and the reverse is
also true; being comfortable is rarely the setting for a memorable
learning experience.
As
a long-term teacher, I can understand why many students dislike, even
resent learning.
Any
academic area, from geometry to local history or psychology is likely
to uncover entire regions of unfamiliar, and possibly unnerving,
avenues of thought.
That,
in a nutshell, is what learning is.
One
of my most unsettling learning experiences took place in one of my
positions as a teacher.
It
was my first time teaching at a Native American tribal college. I was
new to the community and had an overwhelming amount of preparation to
do for my classes.
We
had about week of prep time before the school year began.
I
was learning my way around campus, meeting many people, getting a
sense of Tribal values and processes, and, of course, trying to get
ready for several classes I had never taught before.
In
the midst of this, I got notice of a mandatory meeting for all
non-Native staff and faculty.
In
that setting, there were two categories of people; Native and
non-Native.
We
non-Natives, knew our academic areas, and our teaching strategies.
But
we did not have a working understanding of the culture we were
working within.
And,
it turned out, we were not entirely clear on our own identity –
within, or not within that culture.
I
already had more teacher preparation ahead of me than I could get
done in just a few days.
I
went to the meeting with my mind swirling around all the things I
thought I SHOULD be doing.
About
8 or 10 white (they called us Anglos) non-Natives gathered in a
sparse room. We were all a bit uncertain about the purpose of the
meeting.
A
Native elder, leaning on a cane, slowly shuffled into the room.
He
could have been sent by central casting from Hollywood –
leathery skin, long dark grey-tinged braids, dressed in denim with a
deeply-faded once-red kerchief around his neck and shoes worn with
labor and years.
In
a slow, quiet, weary voice, he stuttered out, “You need to
grieve.”
We
looked at each other, thoroughly dumb-founded.
I
kept thinking, “I have lesson plans to develop, I don’t
have time for this”.
But
then he continued….”My people have walked this land and
fished these waters; we have spoken our language for more generations
than we could count. We know the seasons and the tides, the animals
and the earth, we know where we have come from and who our people
are, we know our Creator who gives us life and to whom we will
return…but you have lost it all. You don’t know where
you come from or where you belong. You have lost your original
place-based faith, your ancient language and your culture that was
home to your ancestors for more years than could be numbered.”
My
lesson plans were swirling around in my head like clattering, loose
papers in a furious windstorm.
“You
believe in a god, if you do at all, who is far from you, and barely
known, even by those would teach you of his ways. You don’t
know where you come from, or where you belong. You don’t know
your own people, your own voice, your own destiny.
You need to
grieve.”
And
then he walked out of the room.
We
stared at each other in silence.
And
then, one by one, we got up and went back to the work waiting for us.
I
still had lesson plans to do. I still stressed and worried about my
classes and my impact on my students.
But
I came to the realization that most teachers come to; as was often
the case, I was learning far more than most of my students.
I
did my classes, learned from my (many) failures and mistakes, but for
the most part, I learned, my students learned, and everything seemed
to go relatively well.
But
that tribal elder knew more about me than I did. And his lesson stuck
with me.
I
need to grieve.
It
was never comfortable, and I could barely explain that interaction to
other non-Natives.
Native
people, who later became my friends, responded with a knowing nod.
They
had seen their own grief and had seen all too often the brutish cost
of denial of the power, even the gift of grief, of those who refused
to face and acknowledge its simmering pulse behind fear, rage,
addiction and destruction.
And
that fear, rage, addiction and destruction will never cease until we,
those of us who consider ourselves immune from the near-gravitational
force of grief, face it in our own lives and in the identity of the
culture and nation we have become a part of.
Whatever
any of us have achieved in North America, and by any standard, it
has, in most cases, been inconceivable to previous generations, the
cost has been the loss of connection to the wholeness that Native
people still have to their ancient and enduring ways and their
unbreakable linkage to the earth, the ever shifting seasons and the
faith and depth of knowledge of their own people whose history, and
in some indefinable sense, their continuing presence still hovers
like a reminder that there is more, much more, in motion and at work,
than we can see or define.
To
celebrate, to know, to truly see, to fully notice who we are and who
those around us are, we need to open our eyes and hearts.
We
need to grieve.
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