#2 American City

[Editor's note: Probably every teacher of a certain age remembers K-W-L. I think of it when ever I'm coming into a new learning experience or leading others into new learning. The K stands for, "What do you know, prior to learning?" (Activating prior knowledge). The W stands for "What do you want to know? " (Activating engagement). And the L stands for "What have you learned?" (Building reflection into the instructional process). In this piece, Corey demonstrates the mindset he's bringing with him to the seminar and how the sense of place has an impact on his thoughts as he prepares for new learning in front of him.]

By Corey Harbaugh

It’s the Fourth of July and I’m in New York City; though I am excited to observe Independence Day here today, it’s hard to imagine I can feel more American than I did here yesterday, our first full day in the city.

Our day began per the recommendation of my Uncle Steve, with a Circle Line boat tour of Lower Manhattan which took us out past Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty for a very close up look at lady liberty. My Uncle Steve has called New York home since coming here during the Vietnam Era; he had been drafted to serve in Vietnam, but as a conscientious objector was sent to New York City instead to work with Americorps and the development of housing projects for the poor. Uncle Steve is one of three brothers in my mom’s family of six siblings, and each of the three brothers had a different relationship with the war, as diverse as the reactions to Vietnam in the country itself at that time. Uncle Mike was drafted to serve in the Army and saw combat action, Uncle Bob voluntarily enlisted, but because he had inherited certain medical conditions was not accepted into the military, and Uncle Steve, the youngest brother, objected to war. I have often marveled that one family could produce three brothers with such disparate relationships with the war and the duty of citizenship, but knowing my grandparents and how they would have raised their children with both a sense of duty and service to something larger, and the responsibility to think and act independently, it makes sense.

It was a beautiful day, but scattered storms threatened, so the sky alternated between clear and blue, and cloudy with the occasional rain cloud overhead as dark and swollen as a bruise. We walked from our hotel the eight blocks down to the boat dock on the Hudson River, and Loriann remarked that it was a pleasure to be surrounded by such cultural, linguistic, racial, and physical diversity that blended into a human cityscape around us. As we sat on the boat and took the tour I noticed five different languages being used by families on the tour with us, and that was just in the area where we were seated, and the people on whom I could eavesdrop (if I could speak five languages).

When we came upon the Statue of Liberty, the tour guide indicated he would be silent for some time so we could take in the site of the statue and think our own private thoughts. My wife thought of her grandmother and grandfather coming to America in the 1950’s from England with their young family (which included my then nine-year old mother in law), going through Ellis Island as their first stop in the United States, on their way to life in Gobles, MI; nearly sixty years later Grammy still lives in the same house she raised that family to be Americans, and even became a citizen herself. Loriann tried to reach her Grammy on the phone to say “I see the sight you saw first upon arriving in this country”, but she was not at home. A few moments later the tour guide informed us that it is estimated that 60% of the people now living in this country either came through Ellis Island or descended from somebody who did. Though I don’t know the story of my own family’s immigration, I do know I am married to one and father to another and step father to a third: that’s at least 50% of the people who live in my own house.

As we approached the statue the clouds parted and it was framed in blue sky, the light shining down to beautifully illuminate the sight for us that welcomed so many million to these shores with the torch of freedom and the promise of a fair chance. I felt a surge of emotion looking at the statue and had to wipe away a tear as I thought about that symbol of gracious and compassionate welcome to America for those coming here pursuing a better life, or fleeing a life elsewhere that for one reason or another had run out of promise.

After our boat tour Loriann and I decided to visit Ground Zero, the site where the World Trade Center towers once stood. We talked about where we were on September 11, 2001, and exchanged stories about being in school teaching that day, and coming to know that America had been attacked, and watching more than 3,000 innocent people lose their lives. Like the Statue of Liberty, Ground Zero is another symbol to Americans and to the world, and I was struck as we visited the site with the reverence everybody visiting the site observed in deference to the tragedy there. I stood on a platform above the Winter Garden near a tour group from India, and as I looked at the site I observed that the group of twenty or more foreign visitors were as silent as I was, as sad as I was, and as respectful as I was. I wondered what they were remembering of that day.

For all the grief and sadness the site evokes, there is also the encouraging site that life goes on. Ground Zero is a maze of construction walls and cranes and men in hard hats. Work has begun on the Freedom Tower, and it will eventually rise 1776 feet above the city, another symbol of America, both in the number of feet of height, but also of the resolve to dust off and rebuild, to raise new towers, to put up new symbols of hope and freedom for the world to see. There are also plans for permanent memorials to the victims of 9/11: reflecting pools in the exact places where the twin towers once stood with walls inscribed with the name of each victim of that tragedy. We didn’t take in as much of the area as we had wanted, and I hope to return today to visit St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, the place where George Washington once worshipped in the late 1700’s, and where rescue workers saved lives and gave of themselves for months on end in the chaotic, heroic times that followed the attacks of September 11, 2001.

From Ground Zero Loriann and I went to Little Italy to meet up with the Childs family, my childhood friend Brian and his wife Janet, their three sons, and Janet’s sister and parents. Brian had invited us to join them for dinner at Il Cortile, a favorite restaurant on Mulberry Street, in the middle of perhaps the most delicious four blocks in North America. Brian and his family are all residents of Florida, up here visiting New York City where Brian’s middle son Steven is taking a summer class at Columbia on critical reading and writing. We had a great dinner: Brian is an amazing and gracious host, and we shared memories and stories of our hometown and the people and events of our past. We talked about our kids and being parents, sports stories, college stories, and the appeal of a bowl of ramen as the staple of dormitory living. It was a great gift watching our friends interact with their children, and the children interact with each other; the boys are the perfect combination of their parents: beautiful, smart, gracious, and mature beyond their years. When I think about the humble places that Brian and I come from, and what we’ve both done with the lives our parents equipped us to live in our own pursuit of the American dream, I smile. If the nuns of St. Mary’s Catholic Elementary School could only see us now. (Hey, they could if they were on Facebook!)

But the highlight of dinner was the immigration story of Janet’s father Tito; he came to America from Columbia in 1964, a single man with $1,600 in his pocket and the gut instinct he should come to America. As Tito told his story, with an amazing twinkle in his eye and humor in his voice, I listened intently, with Brian and his sister in law, who I learned had never heard the full story themselves. It was a great story of landing on your feet in a country where you don’t know a soul and don’t speak the language, where chance meetings lead to opportunity and then prosperity, and marriage with a childhood acquaintance came before the love that followed and lasts to this day. I won’t say more, other than to repeat what the writer Donald Murray said about how all friendships begin with the telling of stories. Well, the stories last night were as rich and delicious as the vodka cream sauce, and I could have listened to them all night.

After saying goodbye to the Childs family, we walked through Little Italy and Chinatown and a little bit of SoHo before hopping on a subway and returning to Times Square and the four block walk to the hotel. We were exhausted by the day, but thrilled, and Loriann was asleep almost immediately while I flipped through channels and finally settled on Rambo, that eighties icon and exploration of the myth of the American hero. As the movie ends Rambo yells into the camera “it’s never over”, meaning for him the experience of Vietnam, but for all of us the repercussions of our choices as Americans. I finally fell asleep after a day of immersion into the dream of America, of choices made, of symbols of hope and freedom, and of generations spent living under the torch of a great lady standing in the harbor a few miles away, her fire burning steady through the night.