You know what's awesome? The semester is over. There are no more assignments. We finished the poetry unit weeks ago. And still, one of our students sent me this beautiful poem this week to be added to the blog.
REGRET
by Jay- r Aluyen
the sea pulling you away from me
farther,
farther into the unknown where i cant find you
the only hope i had of keeping you, broke loose and i
tried in vain to followed you, but the waves is not my friend
washing ashore and keeping you in its
care till somebody
somebody more deserving of your affection will treasure you..
how i wish for the times we spent,
to turn around and come back to me
when they feel my deep repentance
in the melody of my tears
can the things done be undone?
forgotten, buried six feet underground?
if time is but a thing that makes a past,
can time ever bring me back to that past?
eternal the love we had,
had i not broken and shattered your heart
tears streaked down my cheeks,
as i watched darkness embrace your back.
It's actually not totally awesome that the semester is over. This was, by far, my favorite semester at BSU. And that is due, almost completely, to this Creative Writing class. At the beginning of the semester, I don't think any of us - the students, myself or my counterpart - would've called ourselves poets. And now, I think we've all felt more poetic as a result of our semester together. It started with Crystal's Performance Poetry mini-workshop and continued through a visit from another PCV poet, BJ Stolbov and his advice to "Go all the way to the edge. And then pull it back a little if you need to." The momentum continued through open mic nights and assignments that allowed us to explore tough topics that we don't always get to talk about. It gave us a safe space to share emotions that we probably don't often share with others. We talked and wrote about love, betrayal, abuse, alcoholism, neglect, adultery, heartbreak, death in nearly every manner you can imagine. We cried a lot together. But we also laughed a lot. The moments I spent in that classroom were some of the best of my entire Peace Corps experience.
And on my last day of class with them, they surprised me with a party! They shared songs, speeches, poetry, stories and many of their other talents. They gave me some really nice cards and gifts and, well, they made it even harder for me to leave.
The last poem I wrote was actually dedicated to them. It was inspired initially by the constant battle with other teachers and their insistence that my job should be to "fix" the students' accents so that they sound more like me. I hate that. First of all, it's insulting to the students - they speak beautiful English, and their accents make a lot of the language sound more lovely. And they're Filipino, what's wrong with them sounding Filipino? On one day in particular, someone told me that we needed to make them sound more like me because most of them will end up working in call centers. This made me sad, but mostly, it made me angry. Not with the person who told me this, but at the reality that many Filipinos face.
It saddens and enrages me that when these students graduate with degrees in Education and English that the reality is most of them will not be able to find jobs. At least not here in the Philippines. And most likely not in Education. How futile it all must seem to them. I admire their dedication to their studies despite the lack of opportunities they know they'll face when they graduate. But I find it unacceptable for Higher Education to settle for simply training them to be call center agents, or "fixing" their accents so they can go work abroad as care takers, nannies or domestic help. That's fine if those are the jobs they aspire to, but they've chosen Education for a reason. And after hearing their poetry and short stories, I know that working in a call center is not the ultimate goal for their future. They want more. They're capable of more. And they deserve more.
I wrote this poem to express my anger at their situation and my hope for their future. It probably has a bigger impact if you hear me read it aloud, but I hope that you can feel it just by reading it.
Not My Job
It’s not my
job to make you
Speak like
me
Think like
me
Be like me
It’s not my
job to break you down
Just to fix
you up
It’s not my
job octogenarian American patient won’t know
That you’re
Filipino
It’s not my
job
It’s not the
job of higher education to tell you
What to
think
What to say
And how to
say it
It’s not our
job to make you feel
Inferior
Incomplete
Invalid
It’s not our
job to crank out
Batches of
colonized call center clerks
That’s not
the job of higher education
And it’s not
my job
My job is to
teach you
To think for
yourself
Express
yourself
Be yourself
It’s my job
to build you up
Empower you
To find your
voice
And to use
it
To speak up
And tell the
world what you think
What you
want
Who you are
And I hope
you’ll use your voice
To do your
job
As a teacher
As a writer
As a leader
Because it’s
not your job to ensure that
Some guy in
California is happy with his Direct TV service
Or that some
banker in Hong Kong has a clean condo
Or that
someone else’s grandfather in Canada is well cared for
That’s not
your job
Your job is
to
Demand more
More freedom
More
opportunity
More JOBS
For yourself
And your
future students
That’s your
job
And my job
here is done.
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