Standing at the Crossroads of Teaching and Action

In Pedagogy of the Oppressed, Paulo Freire poses the idea that education can be oppressive or liberating.  Oppressive education falls under what he calls the ‘banking’ system, in which teachers deposit information into students’ heads, which is later ‘cashed in’ for use to fulfill some role in society.  It is unidirectional, and prolongs a static, hegemonic state in the world – one which limits human beings’ potential to become more fully human.  Liberating education, on the other hand, is two-directional.  The teacher becomes teacher-student and the student becomes student-teacher through the practice of dialogue. 

            In speaking of the teacher’s role within this liberating educational system, where dialogue is the defining pedagogical encounter between teacher and student, Friere points out that it is easy for teachers (here, akin to revolutionary leaders) to become oppressors, despite their intention to do just the opposite:

“Unfortunately, however, in their desire to obtain the support of the people for revolutionary action, revolutionary leaders often fall for the banking line of planning program content from the top down.  They approach the peasant or urban masses with projects which may correspond to their own view of the world, but not to that of the people.  They forget that their fundamental objective is to fight alongside the people for the recovery of the people’s stolen humanity, not to ‘win the people over’ to their side” (94-95).

He continues:           

“It is not our role to speak to the people about our own view of the world, nor to attempt to impose that view on them, but rather to dialogue with the people about their view and ours.  We must realize that their view of the world, manifested variously in their action, reflects their situation in the world” (96).

            This role, as a liberating teacher, is in, fact, what I was asked to take on by becoming a program leader on this Thinking Beyond Borders gap year program.  Although I might not have known that when I accepted the position, I learned this through our orientation.  I may not totally have understood this pedagogy then, this relationship between the student, teacher and content that TBB was trying to achieve, but I got the gist of it.  I knew that it would mean presenting information objectively, facilitating discussion around the concepts, and letting the students come to their own conclusions about them. 

            I recognized the challenge that this would be for me:  I was an opinionated activist.  I had developed my own thoughts and opinions about each of the themes we would explore through years of experience and study.  I had turned my thought into action in several different areas, letting my opinion shape my actions, and my inactions - my interactions in their entirety with the world.  As someone who had already come to a place of action, I recognized the challenge that it would be for me to take a step back and once again become a learner.  In that, I mean that this pedagogy asks me to not push my own opinions upon the students, but instead to be open to the possibility of new insight from them, and from the dialogue that would come.             

            In one way, I saw this job as an opportunity to change the world in the direction that I wanted the world to go.  I saw/see education as a powerful tool that could/can be used to shape peoples’ perceptions of the world and thus their actions in the world.  I saw education as a way to get people on my side, to become aware, so that we could fight the good fight together.  Despite my awareness of what my role is supposed to be, I have had a hard time reconciling that with what I actually do.  For me to accept and absorb Freire’s thoughts (and truly take on the role I was given) would be for me to thus accept my role as an oppressor in this educational environment.

            Looking back on the past four months, I realize I have had a hard time breaking free of my own oppressive (oppressed?) nature.  Knowing what power I might hold on the students, I have restrained myself from directly giving my opinion, except when the students are persistent to hear it.  Yet I am quite confident that I have at times knowingly directed the conversation with leading questions.  And I know, even if the students don’t, that my opinions are buried within those questions. 

            Yet despite the fact that I recognize this dissonance between my role’s ideal and my role’s reality, I continue to struggle with closing that gap.  If I truly believe something is right, that there is a correct way forward for our humanity to be able to coexist together on this one planet, how do I leave this out of my teaching?  Is it possible to have a liberating teacher who is at the same time passionately engaged in the action of re-creating the world to his liking? 

            I suppose Freire would say that any act of re-creating the world that does not truly liberate people would simply continue the oppressive state that we are in.  He might also answer that I, as a teacher-student, must have faith in my student-teachers to arrive at my same conclusions, so long as I came to my conclusions by way of a similar liberating process:  “Dialogue further requires faith in humankind, faith in their power to make and remake, to create and re-create, faith in their vocation to be more fully human” (90).  Maybe at some level, this faith that Freire speaks of hints at an underlying notion that we might all arrive at the same truth about our world if the process that gets us there is truly free.

             May be not.  It very well may be that I continue to search for some truth to which I can point my gaze and wander toward, when all along, it is not the end destination that is of concern, but the path itself. 

Glimpses Out the Tuk-Tuk Window

          When I first arrived in India, the bright oranges, yellows, reds, golds, pinks, blues and greens stood out to me as I passed by women walking down the road, draped in the sari, worn traditionally by all married women.  The contrast of the blast of color against a backdrop of grey streets and cement buildings was enough to fix my gaze.  The common, everyday wear of the Indian woman appears to me as an elegant piece of fashion we might reserve for special events in my country; this fact, that I felt like it was Halloween, also fixed my gaze. 

            Although I am still mesmerized by the beauty of Indian women in their saris, I realize that it has become much more commonplace to me.  Today on the ride home from our tour of the Pink City palace, we passed by several spotless white horses adorned with beautiful saddles intricately made of gems and cloth of all colors that covered most of the horse’s back and sides.  Atop the horse sat a well-groomed man dressed in a striking purple suit with a matching turban.  The pair was slowly making their way to a wedding – the horse would provide the entrance for the groom. 

            I love horses, and under normal conditions, when I see a horse, I stop to take it in, in all its powerful glory.  Under normal conditions, upon seeing this royal white horse and her princely rider, dressed to the T for their wedding appearance, I would have stopped to take in the combination of power and beauty and wondered why these two were so ornately decorated.  Today however, I did no double take as we passed by. 

            It suddenly became apparent that my horizon of expectations about reality had expanded tremendously in the past month.  Every day, some new sight, some new experience, pushes the limit of what I thought possible for this life, this world.  Goats walking along the side of the road are not such a spectacle after seeing cows meandering on the street amidst the auto traffic, laying in the center divide, let out to pasture on the garbage heaps.  These cows suddenly become normal after you see a camel pulling a rickshaw next to the tuk-tuks and motorbikes, not just once, but every time you hit the streets.  The incredible size of the camel shrinks drastically when you pass an elephant, its trunk beautifully painted in pastel green, pink and blue, rider sitting in lotus position on top, on their way from… on their way to… 

            These sights push the limits of my imagination to new heights, stretching and pulling my brain, reorienting it to the unimaginable possibilities of life. 

            A United States reality:  getting yelled at for riding my bicycle on the shoulder of the road, going the opposite way of the auto traffic.  Not wanting to disturb the peace, I make my way over to the right side of the road.  Life goes on.

            An Indian reality: tuk-tuks, cars, bikes, and pedestrians sharing the road with goats, cows, horses, camels and elephants going in all directions.  Life goes on.

            The beauty of travel:  the exposition of different and new realities to the traveler. 

           

            The challenge of travel:  returning to a previous reality, knowing that other ways are possible; feeling that other ways might work better.  Returning to a previous reality that feels constricting. 

A traveler returned home Left,

Somewhere in between Existing

In one reality, But

Aware of other realities, Wanting

To blend them To

Create his ideal reality Left

Unsatisfied.

The Allure of India

How does one get to know a place?

What expectations and assumptions come with getting to know a foreign land?

            Today our group attended the Jaipur Literature Festival at the Diggi House, near the Central Park here in Jaipur.  Our main intention was to see Amartya Sen speak.  We had studied his thoughts on development in his book Development as Freedom as part of our education unit, and everyone was very excited to have some of our study ‘come to life.’  Although none of us were particularly able to understand what he was saying (due in part to his thick Bengali accent and due in part as well I’m sure to the airiness of the content), we all enjoyed the rich atmosphere that the festival had to offer.  For some, it was the first time they had been to a festival as such, where people gathered to exchange thoughts and conversation about issues they had written about, issues that affect us all as part of humanity. 

            While sitting in the Front Lawns stage vaguely listening to Sen speak, my eyes wandered around the seating area.  There were a few white faces scattered amidst a sea of brown skin and colorful cloth.  The stage, the seating area covering, draped in huge cloths of orange and yellow, and the very modern, hi-tech audio/visual components gave the festival a very professional feeling.  Apart from the particular look of the people, this could have been anywhere in the world.  I have often felt that on this trip.  Especially perhaps in the past two countries, China and India, where the setting has not been particularly foreign to me – rural farmland and urban city – I suppose it has been harder for me to acknowledge my reality of being in a foreign land.

            Yesterday I went to a nice tea shop and restaurant, Tapri, on a rooftop deck overlooking the eastern section of Jaipur’s Central Park.  If you hit it at just the right time, you can score a little table at the edge of the roof with a nice view of a burning sun as it fades into the haze of the city’s horizon behind a huge, lazily flowing Indian flag.  On our tuk tuk ride home, I commented to my colleague how I felt like I hadn’t really gotten to know India.  She rebutted, saying the tea shop was a part of India.  For sure, it is a part I suppose.  But there, where the dress is fashionable, where women seem to have more liberty and freedom then most other places, and where the high prices prohibit the majority of Indians from coming, I guess I felt that I was more at home than I should be in another country.  And apart from haggling with a tuk tuk driver at the main road and experiencing the craziness of Indian streets from the comfort of my tuk tuk, it just didn’t feel like I was getting to know anything different from my past reality in the United States.

            This trip has been hard for me in that way.  It is very easy to travel to and through these countries barely scratching the surface.  From the minute we step off the plane, we are escorted to a hotel or some other compound, where we mingle with ourselves or other travelers, as well as the in-country staff, who are professionally trained to speak English and already have quite a bit of intercultural experience.  We visit amazing world heritage sites, dine at fancy restaurants, are escorted here and there by private buses, and can potentially stay in that bubble throughout the trip’s entirety.  Here in India, I have not yet once visited the work sites, and have only once, very briefly, visited one of the students houses.  I could potentially stay within the confines of the IDEX ELC House, receiving my breakfast, lunch and dinner here, meeting with the students every afternoon, and complete my six week assignment here without ever having gotten to know India.

           

            So, sitting there at the festival, it suddenly dawned on me that I am in India.  The realization had more weight than the simple statement of my spatial orientation.  It carried with it the implication and guilt that I should be taking more advantage of this opportunity.  Maybe this sudden acknowledgment came because of my recent frustrations with the students’ lack of taking advantage of their opportunity here.  Maybe the acknowledgment came because of the relationship that I have been able to build with the three camp staff at the IDEX house, and my realization that I will not be able to see them in a week.  Maybe my acknowledgment came because I have stopped fighting Jaipur. 

            It was definitely a rough and rocky start to our relationship.  Coming from the jungles of Ecuador, the mountains of Peru, the rural villages of China and the openness of Cambodia, Jaipur’s congested streets, trash heaps, noise pollution and urban sprawl clawed at my skin.  Events that led to six of our students leaving four days after our arrival stretched the limits of my emotional resilience, already susceptible due to an uneasy transition to urban life.  A Christmas travel, followed by a much needed beach vacation, stopped any relationship building in its tracks. 

            Now, I find myself at the brink of my last weekend here in Jaipur, and the vague realization that there is something extremely likable about this place is beginning to emerge from within the depths of my being. 

            I suddenly cannot get enough of the honking horns.  Whereas before I used to cringe at the sudden unexpected blast of rude frequency on my ear drum, I now laugh at the painted print on the back of trucks that asks other drivers to “Honk Please.”           

            Whereas before I was somewhat scared at the seemingly chaotic way in which people drove, maneuvering motorbike, tuk tuk and car into every crease of open space in order to continue going, going, going, I now begin to anticipate what moves my driver might make. 

            Whereas before I withdrew from the housekeeper and cooks because it was simply more people with whom I could not communicate, I now see how hard they work, every single day of the week, how they clean the places I exist in, how they cook with love and concern themselves with my well-being; I see the tiredness in their eyes as they sit on the sofa at the end of a long day watching Hindi soap operas, and although I do not understand the TV, nor do I understand their chatter to each other during commercials, I lay with them on the sofas and I feel more love smashed in between these recent strangers-turned-family than I do with many that I share a language with.

           

            One of our first days in Jaipur we received a cultural orientation.  The speaker, Anusha, made a comment about the chaos of India.  She said that although it may seem chaotic to us foreigners, there was a thread underlying all of Indian society that tied it all together, that kept everyone at peace with each other and society carrying on, day after day.   Perhaps it was this chaos that was so abrasive to me during my first few weeks here.  Perhaps it was an apparent sea of disorder which I, born and raised in the law and order of the United States, and despite my many wanderings into the wild and into foreign lands, could not make sense of.  Perhaps it is the underlying thread that Anusha spoke of on one of those first days in Jaipur that I am now beginning to have the vaguest sense of. 

            I suppose it is in this thread, in the underpinnings of this culture, in the web of customs and traditions born thousands of years ago that tie these 1.2 billion people together; I suppose it is in this thread that I begin to see the enticing beauty of India, can finally say that I am beginning to get to know her, and can suddenly and unexpectedly say that I’ll be sad to say goodbye.   

A Love Affair in Goa

People asked me if there was a romantic motivation behind my trip to Goa.  They were guessing that sparks would fly:  good friends, an exotic beach in a tropical climate in a foreign land – how could they not?  I told them no; that our friendship was only platonic.  I told them that our relationship was based on a deeper understanding of each other, which in turn was based on a deeper questioning of reality.  They persisted.  I denied.

I did end up finding romance in Goa, but it was a love affair with the ocean, not with a woman. 

Every morning I sat on her shore, absorbing the last bits of coolness of night as the sun rose behind the palm trees to the east, lighting first the crests of the waves, then showering glitter upon her face, then finally casting light upon the sand.

Every day, I spent hours wrapped in her embrace, and started the new year with the longest open water swims I have ever taken in my life.

Every day I lay on her shore, my skin soaking up the warmth and light of the sun.

Every dusk I watched a large glowing ball of light descend into the horizon, igniting the clouds that sat just upon the farthest reaches of my sight.  It was a sun like out a wildlife documentary from the Serengeti.

 Every night she lulled me to sleep with her waves.  By the end of my trip, my heartbeat had aligned itself with the slow, methodical rhythm of her tides.  

 

I sang to her, constantly.  

 She inspired within me music that only love brings forth.

I ran with her.  I kayaked with her.  I walked along the shore, picking up seashells and watching crabs with homes of all shapes and sizes interact in the ponds left by the outgoing tide.  I played in the sand like a child. 

 I hiked, climbed and scrambled to every lookout on every point.  I listened to the birds she cares for.  Bright-eyed and awed, I chased colonies of monkeys through the jungle.  I made friends with the beach dogs, admired the cattle enjoying the sunsets, knocked on the shell of a huge washed up sea tortoise, watched the fish skirting the ocean’s surface, paddled with the dolphins in the late afternoon sun’s light beam.  I closed my eyes, laying upon her surface, and let the swell move me up and down. 

I humbly succumbed to her power.

I kindly accepted her grace.

I deeply enjoyed her beauty.

I absorbed her peace of nature, and will carry it within my heart, until I arrive home, to see her again.