My beloved, late mentor was an old white man, an Irish Catholic to be exact. He told me how deeply religious and conservative his clan was to boot, all bunched up together in Prince George’s County, Maryland, and how he maintained a streak of individuality since his childhood that continued, I would say, until his death. He was a deeply intellectual individual, and admired his mother who was the same way, albeit in a religious bent (Seven Storey Mountain by Thomas Merton was her favorite). Joe was a voracious reader and master educator; it’s no surprise he was deeply influenced by Paulo Freire.
Paulo Freire was a Brazilian pedagogue and perhaps the most influential educator of the twentieth century. He stressed that the task of a teacher is, in part, to teach one’s students to apprehend reality and, in doing so, understand that it is a changeable thing and go on with the business of changing it. I myself read Pedagogy of the Oppressed several times under his instruction, and impressed the idea that human beings have the power to transform reality into my mind. Language does a disservice to us here, in that it is not, definitely not the teacher ‘depositing’ this knowledge into students’ minds, but teacher and student (or teacher-students and student-teachers) working together to discover reality and working together to change it into a more loving, a more humanized world.
I got this from Joe. I would be lying if I said Joe introduced me to Freire; I was introduced to him in college, but Joe was someone who took me from considering Freire’s works as writings to an actual blueprint for individual and social change. This was real, I realized. It wasn’t just something to study to write a decent paper. It was something to right wrongs writ large. Joe never tired of telling me this story of his early days of teaching in Burlington, Vermont which perfectly testifies to his own imbibement of Freire’s pedagogy. He was in sixth grade and he couldn’t read to save his life.
He also had severe behavioral problems and was being raised by a single father who was working around the clock. He was effortlessly written off by his teachers, and so Joe, the apprentice teacher, was tasked with reaching him somehow. He soon learned that directly asking him to read was not working. And in time, he learned convincing him or psychologically maneuvering him into reading was futile as well. He didn’t like books, he didn’t want to read. Any good teacher would tell you that a dislike for reading is a big problem, but Joe wasn’t a good teacher. He was a great teacher.
He noticed this kid was constantly fiddling with something. Especially when teachers’ were attempting to force him to do his work, he would much rather tinker with this or that. The kid was tactile, Joe realized. So, Joe took the problem student to watch how glass was made, glasswork or glassblowing it’s called. And for once, the kid was completely transfixed. He was absolutely mesmerized by the craftsmen maneuvering the tools and the glass material in various phases of molt. He asked them if he could try to help out, and they cautiously allowed him to do minimal tasks, seeing that the work is hazardous to an extent. The kid loved it; the field trip was a success, and he now knew he was a glassblower at heart.
I don’t know if he ever became one because Joe didn’t know if he ever became one. That’s not the point, said Joe. The point is that, whether it was glassblowing or guitar playing, he found out that there really was something this world had to offer him, something that would allow him to express his creativity and intellect, as well as ground him in a purposeful identity. That’s what mattered. Of course, reading is important, but the important thing was that the kid found out that day that he was capable of being interested in something, and that he could be really good at it if he tried. Trying. Wanting to better oneself at a craft. These are things that Joe introduced him to that day, and whether he channels that energy into glassblowing, it is clear that such channeling could only be possible with the experience of being transfixed by the master glassblowers at work.
The young student’s growth through this episode mirrors that in Freire’s model of how an individual becomes revolutionary, albeit in a way that fits with the kid’s context. When he was relentlessly acting out and didn’t even attempt to read, he embodied a fatalistic attitude, that nothing was worth it; he wasn’t worth it and neither was engaging with the world. As I’ve learned from conversations with countless educators, it’s really the problem children who are the most forlorn. They don’t have a sense of history, of developing through time.
Life was just an ever-present vacuum, and purpose was a lie. Everything changed when he saw those glassblowers work. He realized, in an instant, that reality was moldable, as moldable as the molten glass materials, but like the experts at work, you had to act upon it to change it. This is art in a conceptual sense, humans acting on their environment to create something completely new. In a broader sense, this is how social change works, Freirian style. Once people come to the realization that they have the power to apply themselves to reality, to their destiny itself, the sky is the limit for themselves and for society.
Joe kept telling me the story about the troubled boy and the glassblowers and I wondered when he would stop. I was wondering if he forgot he had told me, but I don’t think that was it. Every time he told me, I was talking about quitting yet another graduate program or job and my plan to move to something else. Again. He told the story about the boy. He never really fully explained why he did, saying something about the power of believing in yourself, but now I know he was vague because he wanted me to figure it out. And here it is.
I’m that boy. Not literally, obviously, but when I was shuttling between different graduate programs and jobs for years, and Joe was a fatherly figure that was sailing me through the roughest waters and giving me encouragement to keep going, I was like that boy before he saw the glassblowers. I didn’t think there was a place for me in this world. I didn’t think there was a way for me to excel at something nor make a positive impact. I felt that deep down, although I would never admit it to myself. But that’s what I felt. I think Joe knew what I felt when I didn’t know, and that’s why he would tell me the story over and over again.
It’s now been nearly eight months since Joe died; I had known him for four years and I still miss him dearly. And without him here, I comb over our conversations in my head to find the beads of wisdom that I missed. The programs and jobs I ping-ponged between were all related to education, whether teacher education programs or something related. Since Joe was an educator, I wanted to follow in his footsteps. I had decided to become a teacher after college, before Joe, but Joe made me “sure” since I wanted to be like him. The past several years were also marked by severe personal struggles that also threw several wrenches into my professional pathway; I just could not get a hold of life, and so I held onto Joe.
I think, at the end of the day, he was teaching me that I didn’t necessarily have to become a teacher to make him proud. He was already proud of me. He just wanted to take me to see the glassblowers, or at least see that that visit is pending. He wanted me to see that even if I didn’t feel like it, I do have a place in this world as everybody does, a place that is waiting for me and realizing that will bring me ever closer to finding it. At the time he, like me, didn’t have any idea what my place was. But after years of misfortune, I’ve learned to flow with life; not make it harder than it has to be. In Freire’s mind, everyone has a unique role to play in creating the truly human world.
After more than six months of a yearlong, entry-level fellowship in drug policy, one that I just stumbled into out of financial necessity, I think I found my “thing.” And this is in light of substance use struggles playing a part in Joe’s relatively early passing. So, I like to think this work can be done in honor of him. But in all honesty, the notion of having a particular “thing” is not more important than any real opportunity to contribute towards the making of a better world. Whether it’s glassblowers who create marvelous works of utility and creativity, or work in public service which I intend to continue, there is always some work to do, someone to be to do that work. Joe essentially told me I was someone capable of doing so, I just had to figure that out for myself, and then I could begin the business of intentionally acting on the world. I am both nervous and excited for the months ahead, and I am disappointed I can’t share them with Joe a.k.a Mr. Brooks. But I am comforted by the fact that his immortal wisdom will continue to steer me, whichever way the wind blows.
My tears are flowing. Your missing Joe is special, and you have eloquently honored him with your beautiful soul and gorgeous writing. Thank you for being you. You are beautiful and you are enough.