Not that I necessarily blame myself; when all day, you're creating for other people, I think it's hard to create for yourself. And then the bigger question arises: why would I create for myself? What is the point of doing so?
There are a few main motivators in life (maybe just my life - maybe I shouldn't be posturing that these are the motivators in everyone's life):
Love
Money
Respect
Knowledge
Happiness
Those are the vaguest words I can think of to describe what is likely much more complex than single or double syllable words can describe. I don't think writing brings me love, it definitely doesn't give me money. I doubt anyone even reads what I write - so respect is gone too. Plus I don't think I'm good enough of a writer to earn respect that way. Knowledge...maybe. But not really, because I learn when I read. When I write I'm more or less just regurgitating things I've thought about, been told, or generally picked up in my 23 years on this earth. And happiness... well, maybe writing makes me happy. But mostly it just tires me. Yet, here I am, sad that I haven't written in a year. I think this was mainly motivated by the fact that I have been reading some well-written, insightful books recently which is a welcome change from the trashy rom-coms I usually spend my time on. While those romance books entertain me immensely, allowing me to shut my brain off and just enjoy myself, and while I would never say that anyone should read serious books for any reason other than enjoyment, I have seemingly remembered how strong writing makes me feel. It makes me feel like there is purpose and importance to the mundane moments and feelings in life and that the things we see as big and important - important meetings at work, engagement ceremonies, births and deaths - while potentially life-changing aren't all that interesting.
Writing about my own life feels shallow and almost useless, but thinking about happiness, there definitely were times that writing about other people's lives brought me a lot of joy. Imagining scenarios people that are smarter than me, hotter than me, more interesting than me, quirkier than me, were going through. People who have 4 good friends and are content in that, people whose neighbors say hello to them in the hallways, people who think about politics not because they feel like they have to, but because they want to.
It occurred to me then that the solution to these two issues (1, not writing enough and 2, not wanting to write about my own life) would be to write about other people's lives. To write fiction, to write about what others in my life that I look up to are doing, to write about relationships I used to have or maybe will have someday. In that vein, I've dipped my toes back into using my words in the below.
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It occurred to her then that she had never had a teacher that looked like her. She sat there, sweating under the polyester gown that was cheaper to rent but her parents had given her money to buy, staring up at the man with ginger hair and a comb-over that tried, but failed, to hide his middle age. He was speaking at the podium wearing a gown and cap of his own, his words echoing uncomfortably in the poor acoustics of the hall. Accompanying him on the stage were about twenty other teachers, all in their own gowns, looking at the speaker and nodding at the right times, as if they had not heard this same speech this time last year. This random musing caught her by surprise. Even in this proper suburban town, with its H-Marts and Patel Brothers and panaderias and Black Lives Matter marches, and after 12 years of schooling, each of her teachers had been white. She let this question bounce around in her mind, continuing to ignore the lauding of her principal at the podium in front of her. Did it really matter if each of them had been white? Would chemistry class have been easier if she had an Asian teacher? Would those little white girls in elementary school have included her in their group projects if the teacher had once long ago not been a little white girl herself? These thoughts mulled around in her mind until those around her started to clap. Absentmindedly, she began clapping as well.
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So - I'm rusty. Please read the above with a bit of mercy, and maybe a bit of kindness too. The idea for this paragraph came from a thought I myself had at graduation (or was it the summer after? I'm forgetting now). I remember thinking about this and then thinking about how my own view of race and identity was formed probably by age 10... not completely formed, but definitely molded enough that reprogramming my brain to 1) accept my own racial identity and culture/heritage became a task of self-discovery I was only able to do because of the wonderful friends I made in high school and 2) my own mission to become anti-racist is not as easy as I thought it would be. In a town like my own where while socio-economic diversity was hard to come by but racial diversity was generally better than the average American suburb, it surprised me that I had never had a teacher of color. It almost disappointed me too. Were the children of immigrants so harshly pressured into high-paying fields that being a teacher wasn't prestigious enough? Were other children of color equally scarred by their kindergarten teachers making them play Native Americans in Thanksgiving reenactments as I was?
While I'm not sure about the answer, it is something I ruminate on. I watch as states like Texas outlaw teaching critical race theory and I think to myself - is school the right place to talk about race? And if it is, are teachers the right people to be carrying out those conversations? This then blossoms into the larger question about the role of teachers in shaping generations and how 1) we do not pay nor respect these individuals enough and 2) we also do not hold them to a high enough standard.
I've had the privilege of having teachers that believed in me and supported me, but I've also had teachers who have made me feel like absolute trash. Sometimes they were the same people. My second-grade teacher asked me about the dot on my forehead and in third grade, I stopped wearing a bindi to school. One of my high school teachers told me that I was amounting to only a fraction of the potential that I had and I spent the rest of the morning skipping class and crying in my car. hI know I'm going off on tangents now but I've always been interested in how the public school system shapes the next generation of voters... the next generation of innovators, of entrepreneurs, of racists, of criminals, of misogynists, of activists. My partner sometimes tells me he wants to be a teacher, and while I know he will be a brilliant one, sometimes I wonder if he truly understands the weight of that decision. Does the world need another white man teaching math or computer science? How will that solve our diversity issues in technology, STEM, finance, etc. How will he make sure he doesn't ruin someone's personal perception of themselves, the way mine has been ruined in small ways by so many teachers? When Shawn went to Colombia to teach computer science at a small girls school, I always thought about if any of those girls would think about him 20 years from now, 30 years from now, sitting in their offices or at their desks, working in whatever career they were in. I know I still think about a comment Mr. Rokicki made to me about 8 years ago - about how students like me were the reason he still enjoys teaching. People have said nicer things to me before that and since then, but what is it about the words of our grade school teachers (and even college professors) that leave such deeper imprints on us? Is this just me? While I don't know how much Mr. Rokicki's words matter anymore (he left teaching), I wonder if Shawn will be that kind of teacher. The one people still think about when they are five days behind in emails and drowning in work and social gatherings and familial responsibilities.
There is a great chance this entire thought process is coming from a place of pure jealousy. Teachers have, what I would consider, an incredibly important job. Important in real, tangible ways. Not falsely important, pretentiously elevated jobs like mine where my day-to-day doesn't really affect anyone or help anything. Not that I'm complaining about my job, it suits me just fine, but I am at least sure that my job is not important. Don't teachers just want to buckle from the pressure of that importance? Do they understand it? Does it haunt them? How do they sleep knowing every day that 30 years from now one of their off-handed comments could come back to take the wind out of one of their past students' chests (for reasons good or bad)? If anyone out there is reading this and is also a teacher, I'd love an answer.
Anyways, there is a chance that I don't write anything else for another year or ten. But I also might.
Thank you for reading,
Pooja
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