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| Lea Annastasio, Hawley Lane Elementary, Newtown |
Good afternoon. I feel very fortunate to have received
an invitation from Trina Paulus to be here today and to participate with
Montclair, New Jersey, in celebration of community, hope, and the dreams we all
have for one another. My name is Bryan and I am the Director of the Connecticut
Writing Project at Fairfield University and, more recently, a friend of Trina
Paulus and the influence of Stripe and Yellow in offering serenity in times of
chaos. Trina and I met last year in response to December 14
th, when
tragedy hit close to my home in Connecticut. The two of us joined forces to
transform
hope into action and that
is why I was invited here today. I will begin my short conversation with the
words of my colleagues and friends,
Lee Attanasio, an elementary school teacherin Newtown and Carol Davies, a colleague who lives in Sandy Hook and who uses poetry
as a healing force.
The idea began when we, as co-facilitators,
began to discuss how we might offer something to the community of Newtown, how
we might facilitate an experience that would allow all the language and images
that swirled about us to stop, be seen, and perhaps be released into the larger
space of our common understanding. And of course, we wanted to share with each
other what we’d seen, to read aloud what we had written. As teachers, we knew
that being together and writing together formed the definition of community,
and that writing, sharing, and listening as individuals with that community was
essential to our experience of ourselves. But how to start, and would anyone
join us?
I will come back to their
words at the end of this conversation and explain how we joined one another, in
hope, to begin a dialogue of healing in response to December 14th.
But how do I start? And will
anyone join us?
On December 14th, like many other nerds in the
State of Connecticut, I decided to play hooky from work so I could catch an early
premiere of Peter Jackson’s The Hobbit
that was playing at a local theater. Personally, I came late to the fanaticism of
Tolkien’s trilogy, but when it happened, I was hooked. His genius became a
metaphor for my philosophy in understanding history, war, conflict, and ethics
and in a post-Harry Potter world. I
was looking for additional meaning of systems, bureaucracies, governments, and
politics. In the audience that day sat 200 bearded men, somewhat plump and 100%
geek, and I quickly realized that I was one of them. Sure, I felt a tremendous
sense of guilt for neglecting my academic obligations at the end of a semester,
but was comforted that for two hours of my life I could live in fantasy. I went
to the movie to escape the world for a while and to enjoy a story I began to
cherish as a child.
A third of the way through the film, however, I began
growing uncomfortable with the gratuitous violence. Jackson was experimenting
with a new style of cinematography and the camera motions reminded me of the
dizzying effects one experiences while playing video games. This, coupled with
the film’s heightened use of gore, made me wonder why Hollywood chooses to
overextend graphic images as a way to shock audiences. Feeling prudish, I only
wanted Tolkien’s story - the allegory that gave me meaning as a young man. I
came to The Hobbit for the moral, not
the grime. It was early in the movie, though, when I began to receive text
messages and phone calls from friends and family. The first came from twins,
relocated refugee youth from Liberia and survivors of Liberian conflicts, who I
mentored in Syracuse, New York. “Bryan, where are you? Are you working in
Newtown? Are you near that school?”
I confessed I was in a
theater. What were they talking about? What was going on?
More text messages arrived
and I knew something was occurring outside the theater where I was playing hooky.
It was terrible, that I knew, and I was trapped in a theater beside story-geeks
and middle-aged Neanderthals nerds. Even though the animated tub of popcorn and
pint of Pepsi warned me about using my cell phone during the viewing, I went
online to find out what was happening. The over-the-top Hollywood rendition of The Hobbit seemed drastically
inappropriate in light of the illnesses in the real world.
School shootings? Violence? Did
another Orc really need to be bludgeoned with a club? How many children? Teachers,
too? Really? Again?
My phone was loaded with
messages, including the frantic voice of my mentor in Kentucky – my Louisville
mom - who taught me the power of building relationships with each and every
student as a way to help them achieve their greatest success. Sue simply wanted
to know I was safe. This was her nature – always looking out for others.
Nothing mattered more than seeing another generation of youth succeed in
school. She was a champion of children. Events like these destroy her optimism
and hope in the human species.
But, how do we start? Will
anyone join us?
I returned home and
immediately turned the television on to see, first hand, what was happening 11
miles north of my home. As I saw the footage, the first person who came to my mind
was a teacher I had, myself, in Cicero, New York. Here name was Cyndy Debottis.
In my senior year, she taught a course called
Tools for Change that was designed for students to work on their
souls and to offer them assistance in figuring out life’s larger dilemmas. Her
curriculum covered much needed territory that was typically overlooked by state
bureaucracies and politics. In her room, students were much more than a test
score and with her instruction, we felt safe, appreciated, and supported. Cyndy
understood kids, helped us to see we were on our own journey through life, and
went beyond the call of duty to help each of us realize that the power of healing
begins inside. It was in her class that I first heard a story about two
caterpillars and a year later, when my grandmother died – a personal role model
with a contagious zest for life – I recalled the Trina Paulus story she read to
us.
Hope For the Flowers, in a way,
became a metaphor in the back of my mind that guided my understanding of the
world, especially in difficult times.
I became a teacher in 1995, took
subbing positions for a while, and finally had my first position in 1997 at a
quirky school in Louisville, Kentucky. A parent of one of my students, Jan
Arnow, asked me to sponsor an afterschool program with her called No More Violence. Together, we worked with
students to deconstruct violence in the world around us and helped them to
question the layers that lead to violent acts. We looked at societal structures
that support violence, but also all the biological, cultural, historical, and
political foundations that sit at the base of any violent act. To model the
complexities, Arnow shared an essay by Sarah Corbett, From Hell To Fargo, featured in the New York Times Magazine, a
story about Sudanese refugees relocating to the United States because of the civil
conflicts in the Sudan. 200 Lost Boys
were slated to move to Kentucky in 2001 and inspired by the article, I became a
mentor. The Sudanese men I worked with became central to my teaching and they
often shared their life stories with my students to help them understand the
privileges afforded to many of us living in the United States.
In 2004, however, I began to
question our affordances when one of the men I worked with was murdered by
three African-American youth in the southern part of our city. It helped me to
realize how deeply rooted violence is to the age Imperialism, America’s history
of slavery, and the inequities that still exist between populations in our own
country. We, too, have a history of violence in the U.S. that continues in many
of our communities. I don’t feel that young people are born to kill one
another, but come to this as a result of oppression, hardship, lack of
education, and frustration.
I mention this story, and my
teaching in Kentucky, only because there are times when there are few words
that can be said. Although I’m a talkative, energetic fellow, when James was
murdered, I grew reserved. I wanted answers, and without them I grew anxious. Why murder? What leads young people to act
in violent ways? How can educators counter this? What responsibility do I have
to the histories that cause such behavior?
Channeling Cyndi Debottis,
my high school teacher, I remembered the yellow book.
There’s hope ….shouldn’t
there be?
Violence is a tricky
monster, especially when I reflect on the books I taught to my high school students.
Violent acts exist in almost all of the texts and, perhaps, the rise of the humanities
resulted as a way to question violent ways. In fact, Euripides began this
tradition rather dramatically. A stellar historian I worked with at the time
was quick to remind me that such intellectual pondering is the result of
Western, privileges and that my right to ask such questions is a result of over
2500 years of history. In her opinion, and I have to agree, what we have in the
U.S. today is the result of numerous conflicts throughout history. Doing the
math, I came to realize that my freethinking, democratic ideals are the direct
result of almost 104 million soldiers who have lost their lives in war. To this
date, the world has not known a period of sustained peace and perhaps this is
why we are here today. Freedom, unfortunately, is the result of violence.
Upon viewing the news
reports of Sandy Hook I found myself writing a letter to Trina Paulus. To be
honest, I didn’t know if her book was still in publication or any biographical
facts about her. In the email, I simply explained who I was and that I wanted to
purchase copies of
Hope For The Flowers
to give to Connecticut Writing Project teachers with direct relation to Sandy
Hook. Within seconds of the email, my phone rang.
Um. Trina Paulus, called my
office.
“Hello?” I spoke skeptically
into the phone. “Seriously? You’re Trina Paulus.”
“We can do more than a just
a few books,” she advised. “We need to think bigger.”
Trina inspired me to write a
letter to the National Writing Project, a network of 70,000 teachers, with the
idea to do a “butterfly” release with Stripe and Yellow in response to December
14th. The goal was to distribute copies to teachers, counselors,
psychologists, families, churches, synagogues, mosques, and students throughout
southern Connecticut.
The phone call came a week
before the holidays when I was preparing to visit family in upstate New York. I
quickly sent a letter to the
National Writing Project and packed my belongings so
I could be with friends and family. I normally take the same route when
entering Central New York, but I decided to try a new exit. I wanted to visit
my sister and her two boys, first. Subconsciously, I wanted to be with their youth;
I knew it was what I needed.
When I exited the thruway
near their home, it began to snow - the first snowfall of the season, in fact –
and I felt a sense of calm. I watched the light flakes dance between the
gorgeous pine trees that lined the hibernal roads and watched the vague
sunlight trying to peak out of the clouds. Beautiful. Then my phone rang.
Paulist Press was on the line and wanted to donate the first 100 books. I drove
to the side of the road and looked to the sky. 100 books. Really?
How do we start? Will anyone
join us?
Two days later, Friends of
Hope for the Flowers made a call to their listservs and I contacted my friends
in Kentucky, too. Through them, and the
National Writing Project, I quickly
realized were had much support to do a substantial butterfly release in
Connecticut.
It was impressive, but I
felt sympathy for Trina. In the true nature of her spirit, she wanted to
autograph each and every copy of the book. Una McGurk sent me photos of Trina
lost behind piles of yellow. The first time I saw a photograph of Trina buried
behind her yellow paperbacks I felt a pang of guilt. I made the suggestion to
create a sticker for the inside of the book, which she agreed to do.
We also learned that Sandy
Hook was inundated with an outpouring of gifts, donations, and memorials, and I
worried that our response might add to the stress the community was already feeling.
Local newspapers pleaded with the nation to cease sending items and to “pay it
forward” in other ways. Colleagues who live in Newtown also shared stories
about the overwhelming attention their small town was receiving. I discussed
this with Trina and she agreed. We would pay it forward in other ways.
The first butterfly release
occurred when colleagues of mine hosted an event to bring teachers,
psychologists, counselors, and administrators together to talk about ways to
respond. During the event, participants shared how local schools were working
with (or running from) the local tragedy. All of them came because they wanted
to help students, teachers, and families to cope. Each received a copy of
Hope For the Flowers.
A second release occurred in
Westerly, Rhode Island, after I learned that my niece, who marches with the
Cicero-North Syracuse Winterguard, was competing against Newtown High School. I
contacted the directors of both groups and asked if it would be all right to
bring copies of Trina Paulus’s book to the regional as a good gesture between
competing teams. I also put together a care package for performers in
anticipation of grueling schedules and a very long weekend. Members of the
Newtown squad were thrilled by the generosity and, a week later, called my
office to leave messages of appreciation. They shared stories of how they
passed the book along to others after they read it.
Soon after, butterfly
releases began to occur in Syracuse, New York, too, at refugee community
centers where I learned much about the literacies of relocated youth. One of
the young men who received the book gave it to his American-born girlfriend,
who read it and wanted me to know that her cousin was one of the victims at
Sandy Hook and she immediately mailed the book to them.
Butterflies were also sent
to Nunavut, Canada in the Arctic, to a reservation that reportedly has one of
the highest teen suicide rates in the world.
The book has been
distributed at literacy workshops, to pre-service teachers, to undergraduates,
to classrooms, and even at the Civil Rights Institute in Birmingham Alabama. Yellow
and Stripe were also placed in the hands of
Emmanuel Jal, a Sudanese hip-hop
artist who is starring in an upcoming film with Reese Witherspoon and whose
global hit,
“We want peace,” was promoted by Alicia Keys. It’s a long story,
but the two of us ended up in a conversation one night in a hotel after he
performed. The conversation quickly turned to global violence and I had a copy
of Trina Paulus’s book in my bag. As I gave him
Hope, he gave me a copy of his book
War Child (I recommend you read it)
. The stories share a similar journey.
It got darker and darker and he was afraid.
He felt he had to let go of
everything……
And Yellow waited….
….until one day…
Until we ask, how do we
start? Will anyone join us?
A class set of
Hope For the Flowers was also delivered
to Stratford, High School, Alma Mater to Victoria Soto, the teacher who died
heroically while saving her students. The high school is less than two miles
from where I live.
One by one, day-by-day, all
the copies were distributed. At basketball games. In libraries. During
community events. In classrooms where I taught. And finally, to young people
participating in the Newtown Poetry Project, a writing project between poet
Carol Ann Davies and teacher Lea Attanasio. The two of them worked graciously
to bring poetry to the young people they love and to offer it as a means to
heal. They worked with students in grades 3
rd through 6
th
and their parents in a six week program after school. They came simply to write
as a community and, with support from the Connecticut Writing Project, published
a collection:
In The Yellowy Green Phaseof Spring: Poems from Newtown, earlier this year.
In the last ten months I
have been thinking about the teacher who impacted my life as an 18-year old and
how her reading of Trina’s book came to the forefront of my world. This is the
power that words have on others. More importantly, it is the power of an
amazing teacher. As the project took on wings of its own, I set out to find the
woman, Cyndy Debottis, who made such an impact on me. I found her on Facebook
and she wrote me,
It's so hard for teenagers,
people in general for that matter, to see their worth and potential. Not only
with teens so long ago, but with the inmates I work with now. There is so much
to say about Hope For the Flowers. So
many people struggle to get ahead even though it may be nothing of value to
them other than just being there. They live their lives in a very dissatisfied,
unhappy fantasy bubble trying to convince themselves that's where they want to
be. They fear that if they change direction, all of their time would have been
wasted. This is sad. Everyone deserves to know that the wings exist within.
I wanted to finish what I came here to say by emphasizing what
Cyndy wrote to me and by reading a poem written by Lea Attanasio, the 4th
grade teacher who worked with Carol Ann Davis on the Newtown Poetry project. As
mothers and educators who live in the community that was disturbed by horrific choices
of a single individual, they came together to stand with pride and hope for
their town. In the center of Newtown is a large American flag that stands tall
in the middle of the street. It is a symbol that Lea captured poetically in one
of her contributions.
A
Proud Soldier:
Our flag
THE flag on the pole
stands boldly
humbly
courageously
with great humility
and endless pride
for all the world to see.
It waves
towers
welcomes
guards
and reminds us of who we are.
An albatross
perched high above the cliff
pensive, peaceful,
prepared to soar.
It waits and watches
with endless patience.
Anonymous and famous
fragile
vulnerable
invincible
unforgettable.
It rises above
soars on a breeze
dancing.
It bows to a storm
mourns in sadness
then rises again
to cheer
to remember
to celebrate
salute
honor
cherish
love.
In 2013 I began reflecting and living by a Bantu philosophy of UBUNTU,
which roughly translates, “I can be me because of who we are together.”
Ubuntu matters because communities matter. Not just Newtown. Not
just Montclair. Not just New York City or Washington, DC. But Damascus. Darfur.
Mogadishu. Monrovia. Oakland. Saigon. Tehran, too. We can be us, because of who
we are together.
But how do we start? Will
anyone join us?
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