Work is due on this Sunday (3/8/20) at 1400 hours (2pm eastern time zone). Work needs to be completed according to the APA writing style. This assignment should be 3 pages.

As you read, make notes about your reactions, assumptions, implications, arguments, questions.

The idea of personal responses are to engage in thoughtful internal dialogue about the idea of global issues and education. You should attempt, in your understanding of the readings to get “underneath” what you read in order to understand the social, political, and cultural underpinnings of the issues.  Reading critically involves more than understanding the words or liking or disliking the texts; critical reading requires reflection.

***Critically respond and answer the following questions for each of the stories in the attached document:
 

(a) what are the texts’ assumptions about the phenomena being discussed? 

(b)  What are the implications of the assumptions and/or the arguments? 

(c)  What is at stake in the text’s arguments for the authors and for you?

(d)  Who (or what) are the authors arguing for or against? 

(e)  How do the authors construct and articulate their arguments?

(f)  How do the texts “fit” (or not fit) in relation to your own thought and practice? 

(g) What questions did you find yourself asking after doing the reading? Please do not simply summarize the readings.

Write a critical response connecting the content from the text with your responses to the prompts. 

The response should be written in a narrative form that is evident of engaging with the content and reflection.

Part 6

To love. To be loved . . . Never get used to the disparity To love. To be loved . . . To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To see joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. —

Arundhati Roy

Story 1

What will become of your life?

by Isabel Souza-Rodriguez

I always hated concrete. Sure, I have benefitted from and appreciated the many structures in my life that utilized concrete to offer me support, an even path, or even shelter. Mostly, I grew up hating the way that concrete made my surroundings hard, impenetrable, and unresponsive. I can’t run my fingers through concrete. I can’t put my ear against it and hear beautiful messages of a live world. The most it ever did was to echo the beatings of my own heart. I still remember what it felt like having my ear against the concrete wall of my parent’s bedroom, those nights that my sisters ran and crawled into my bed. I remember hearing the deepness of my father’s voice through that wall—how it made the wall shake, especially with the sudden thud of my mother’s body slamming against it. I remember not being able, against my better wishes, to will that wall into softening before her impact. There is a crisp finality in impacting concrete. A deep silence always follows for a few moments as the compounds consume every last thread of the momentum that just came upon it. Surviving it always creates the void of that unavoidable question, “What will become of your life . . . now?”

I heard this question again in December of 2011. I had been drinking excessively, and the series of events that followed led to my confrontation with this question as I felt the weight of two bodies pressing down against my back. A broad hand cupped my skull and pressed my face down against the pavement. I realized, beyond the sound of this question, that my hands were pinned tightly against my back. Two officers were restraining me, protecting me . . . from myself. Not 60 seconds earlier I had struck, with the full force of my body, the love of my life. I didn’t even see him until his body was already ahead of my fist, flying backward with all of my energy, and slamming into the side of a moving SUV that was passing right behind him on the street in that instant. As the concrete printed itself onto my cheek, I could hear the officers screaming to me, “We’re taking you to jail” and my love screaming somewhere behind them, “Please don’t take him! Please don’t take him! Please!!!”

I didn’t deserve being released by the officers in that moment. I had lost control. In an instant, I now understand, a trigger from my childhood made me react violently and defensively against my father who wasn’t even there that day. It wasn’t my father that had reached for my shoulder. It was my fiancé. So it was clear to me, then, as we traveled in silence back to our home, crying and barely able to understand what had just happened, that I knew I could no longer continue to avoid seeing a therapist.

As a Latino man, I know the stigma in my culture against seeking mental health support. I was raised to believe that “mental health” was a figment of people’s imagination, and that all therapists were nothing more than professional con artists. I internalized that for so many years that I wasn’t paying attention to the severity of my own problem. I needed to find help . . . for my mind. No diet could ever cure the narrative of my own thoughts. No physical practice could ever build up my internal strength to defeat trauma. I understood this finally after my explosion on December 11th. Immediately afterward, I looked into providers and scheduled my first appointment.

The day before my therapist appointment, I met for breakfast with one of my best friends from middle school—one of the hardest periods of my life. I asked her candidly, “How is it possible that we survived?” Neither one of us had an answer.

In my first session, I shared with my therapist my recollections of the bodies that made up my years in middle school; flashbacks of my peers who were always more dead than alive, stuffed to capacity with medications that were supposed to have made them “feel better” or “hold themselves together.” Remembering how those bodies constantly fell apart, became pale, fragile, tore at the extremities, ached, and fell to the ground suddenly, repeatedly, needing to be carried to “administration” where parents would come to carry them farther away to institutions where their entire world would become boxes of concrete. I recanted to my shrink how I grappled through those years, barely making it, desperately hoping not to become another needless casualty.

“I’m not sure how we survived it,” I said.

“We did . . .” my friend replied, “and I think that’s why we’re such good friends.”

I began to see quite clearly in my therapy sessions that the therapist had no particular healing affinity, nor magical powers. She didn’t generally say very clever things nor were her responses much more interesting than any other conversation I ever held with a friend in childhood. I appreciated though, being able to find a complete stranger who could tell me, “I’m SO glad you made it today” knowing that she meant it, and especially that she could understand how “today”makes it such a special victory. I did learn through her, though, that Yes, I managed to survive middle school, but I need to remember and to appreciate that I survived today too. The lesson will remain that perhaps if I survived today, I might be able to tap into that same strength tomorrow.

I resent any parent that still makes their kids feel stupid for wondering if their minds and hearts also need medical care, just like our bodies. That’s like denying a kid eye and dental exams for years, simply from superstition. I feel that I could have just as easily gone blind. I could have completely lost sight of my very self.

My therapist one day explained, “I’m surprised at the level of conversation I’ve been able to have with you. People who have lived your experiences generally become so far removed from reality that it’s hard to achieve any coherent dialogue with them beyond a few disjointed sentences.” I laugh at how incredibly un-reassuring it is to think that somehow I adapted some unnatural ability to survive trauma. That doesn’t give me any comfort. It really just makes me feel somewhat undeservingly lucky. I remember reading a Margaret Atwood novel once about a woman who felt like the word, “shatter.” I spent over a year reflecting on that book and how closely I connected to that character. I’ve been on the verge of shattering for the 14 years I’ve known I’ve needed therapy.

Therapy is just a step. A single liberated stride on an uncharted path of self- healing. It isn’t that life “gets better” all of a sudden. But without that therapy experience, I wouldn’t have the words to describe to you how incredibly wonderful it feels right now to know that “I gave myself a chance” and trusted my instinct well enough to have taken that first step, in whatever direction that may take me. How often do we ever “give ourselves a chance?”

It seems much easier for me to believe in others than to believe in myself. I used to go to any lengths not to do it—not to “fail”—as if personal care were a definitive form of failure. I seemed to want to sacrifice 14 years of my life to self-doubt, when my very bones seemed to yearn for self-love, or acknowledgement, or gratitude. I often see a mind . . . a heart . . . a spirit somewhere inside me, running like a 5 year old to each dark corner of me, whispering, “I am here.”

I regret that we still live in a world where mental health is far beyond accessible to everyone who deserves it. Still, I believe it can be possible for all of us, if we as a community could dare to believe that mental health is as important in our lives as our physical health: our exercise, our eye exams, our immunizations, our hygiene, our diet. It is possible to care for our whole selves! I’m learning that it is possible to show love and compassion for the entirety of who I am, and not just my physical parts.

I tell my therapist about my life of activism, and she replies, “I was an activist like you when I was young. My body shifted and my capacities became different, so now I bring my activism to this room, where every day I fight very hard for good people to have faith in themselves, and for misunderstood people to see the fullness of their astounding beauty.”

I remember again, my friend telling me: “We’re friends because we are survivors.” I grieve the fact that not all of us who had every right to be here with us today made it—and that the best of us might be needing constantly to brace for the impending impacts and lashes of each new day of resilience. For, I, too, am unsure if I will find my way back in that void of the questions hidden within concrete. So if you’ve ever wanted to reach out to someone anonymously to ask for proper individualized attention to everything beyond your physical self: DO. If you’ve been postponing it for years because of something someone you loved said to you: SCREW THEIR IGNORANCE, AND TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF. You are way too precious to be set aside as a secondary priority. Sometimes we must be our #1 priority. Our lives and others may depend on that basic respect.

Knowing that I might be close to taking my own life, my therapist, during my initial session, recommended scheduling another appointment for a date four days away. Ironically, she accidentally wrote the appointment on the wrong page of her calendar, so her office was locked the day that I came back to see her.

I had a moment of panic for a split second as I stared at my hand grasping the knob of her locked office door. Yet it was that moment that I realized the true function of the sessions of therapy. I didn’t really need to talk to her about anything specific, or brilliant, or insightful. I just needed to come back. I needed to be able to reassure myself that I cared about my mind enough to be willing to offer it continued, undivided medical attention. I realized this, released the doorknob, and felt peace. I haven’t missed a single one of my appointments since.

Story 2

What is going on?

by Alexa Ovalles

“Mom, what is going on? What are these people doing here?” Those are the words I remember asking her at 10:00 p.m. when my dad’s family were outside our bakery on June 12th, 2003. It was dark, 60 degrees, and the only lights shining were from the lamp posts and the cars. By the time we arrived home, seated in a corner of the bed, Mom said: “We can’t find your dad.”

A seven-year-old girl might not understand the severity of the situation, but when I heard that rough voice coming from the phone say “We have him,” it was clear that this was more than just a disappearance. The people behind the voice wanted money. The amount was ridiculously high, and a miracle would be needed to sell the farm, the bakery, and get him back. We were just recovering from a two-year separation of the family when my dad’s kidnap- ping happened. Weeks later, from our balcony, I saw my mom with my little Barbie suitcase. Her words were “Bye” but her face spoke a different story. Where was she going? I did not know, yet it seemed just like a normal day.

That night was my cousin’s birthday. We were in front of the cake when my aunt suddenly led my sister and me to the car, then drove us to my grandma’s house. Lights, noises, reporters, and at the end of the hallway, there was a dirty long bearded man. It was my father. He did not look like what I remembered him. He had been kidnapped for two months—which had seemed like years.

In those woods, in the jungle, these Colombian abductors hold their victims neither with chains nor ropes, but with the fear of a soldier’s armament. They are an organization where phones do not exist and the messages are sent by gunshots to the air. Thank God, my father was secure now. Unfortunately, his liberty came with a price. Higher than any currency exchange, a life. The exact same day he returned, the same day my mom disappeared. That last day I saw her from the balcony, she was set to have a face-to-face interview with the kid- nappers to give some money she had gathered for my dad’s rescue.

It was already August, very late at night, wearing a brown wig, she drove a rented car. Maybe it was his heartbreaking voice on the tape saying that he loved us and how he hoped we could be together that moved my mom to go after him. She expected to see him, but . . .

“Mrs. this is not enough. We’ll release your husband, but you must come with us,” said the guerrillero when she gave him a hollow tire filled with cash. It was either the trade or my dad’s death. Right after she accepted the terms, they released him and kept her.

On the other side of the border from my mom, there was my dad wobbling, finding an exit from the jungle. He ran into the mud and started rolling downhill, where he ended near a principal road that connects to our home- town. I still wonder how he didn’t die while falling from that mountain. Just as he got on his feet, a taxi passed by and gave him the ride to my grandma’s house. He was physically free but still shackled to their extortion. He knew that the battle was not finished yet.

Back in the jungle, the first week of her kidnapping, my mom was losing her mind. Being a woman surrounded by seven men is not a good picture. The days were long and the nights were more so. The only light she saw was from the sun or the moon. She was trapped and had nowhere to go. “One night, while I was sleeping in a hammock hung between two trees, something fell from the top and rubbed me closely. It was a snake,” she said. Another day, they were walking and she saw a big scratch in a trunk. Clearly some big ani- mal had left its mark.

There was no escape from her captors. If she tried, she would end up caught and killed by her abductors or by a dangerous animal. Her prison was a place where there was neither bathroom nor kitchen, just trees, ground, rain, bugs, and fear. She feared dying or worse, being raped by each of the seven.

Often people in danger’s way have suggested that when death is close, scenes from one’s life flash before them. During those times, people of faith suggest that their God is always close, closer than one’s fear. There was only one thing my mom’s abductors allowed her to keep along with the men’s clothing she had brought to my father—a Bible. Being raised a Christian, she spent her days reading and her nights praying. She told us later that she discovered how her reality was in that book. The scriptures became alive for her. While captive, something moved where she put her hand in a tree. It was a chameleon. She read this chameleon as no other than God’s message of love for her. She thought she heard God whisper to her: “Just as he hides from his enemies, so I hide you from yours.”

Sometime after the initial shock of her captivity wore off, my mom started meditating and praying Psalms 23. “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” Miraculously, she started to become more patient, more peaceful, believing that God’s will would be done. The hope of returning home, she said, began to grow.

Weeks passed by and few notices came from the status of the mission, as they used to call it. My dad tried to sell some properties, but he couldn’t raise enough of the ransom demand, and ended up mortgaging every property he had. Once he gathered the money and gave it to them, she was guided out- side the woods.

My mom explained, “We walked for hours until we made it to a small village. There, one of my captors told me: ‘Don’t say a word to anybody. If they ask something, you are my wife, and we’re just waiting for the bus that will take us to the nearest place.’”

After they arrived in the closest city to the border between Colombia and Venezuela, her captor said: “I am sorry, Ms, but this is the job I chose.” With those words, he went his way. My mom was free.

It took her almost a day to get to Rubio, my mom’s hometown. I can’t forget her words about the return: “When I was in a corner of the street, at about 500 feet away from home, I stopped walking and broke down crying. I hadn’t cried until I finally realized it was over.”

Neither my little sister nor I knew about her kidnapping during that month and a half. I was told she was in a spiritual retreat. She was, indeed. I might say, one that changed our entire lives forever. Nowadays, I thank God for bringing back my family, for giving me the understanding that life might last years or can easily be gone in a second. Money, properties, material things don’t matter when you’re losing your loved ones. Then you get to admit that love, honor, and gratitude cannot be taken for granted.

There are a lot of stories that root who I am today, but my parent’s bravery and sign of true love is, perhaps, a special seed inside of my heart. Their story has strengthened me and filled me with courage to never give up on anything, even when it’s hard to see the light, to look first at the need of others before being selfish and egocentric; to care about what I have and not complain about what I do not have; to honor and appreciate my family and surroundings; to respect others; to give without expecting anything in return—“What you sow, you shall reap.”

I would love to say that everything was perfect after we were all reunited as a family, but though one chapter may end in joy, another kind may quickly begin. The first month after our ordeal, my dad didn’t want to go out of our apartment. He struggled to overcome the fear of being abducted again. His and my mom’s fears dominated how they raised us thereafter. Their fears and insecurity became ours. I struggled to liberate myself from fear. With time, our lives improved, but our hearts needed healing. Two years later, because of a new threat, my family had to flee to Miami, a city where many seem to be pursuing a second chance; where many seem to be running away from a conflict, trying to save their lives. As I write these words, I know that my family’s journey is not finished. We are slowly remaking our lives, embracing change, and rooting ourselves once again in another place and time.

CriticalResponse Rubric:

Category 0 1 1.5 2

Timeliness

late On time

Delivery of Critical
Response

Utilizes poor
spelling and
grammar; appear
“hasty”

Errors in
spelling and
grammar
evidenced

Few
grammatical or
spelling errors
are noted

Consistently uses
grammatically
correct response
with rare
misspellings

Organization

Unorganized. A
summary of the
chapter.
Unorganized in
ideas and
structure.

Some evidence
of organization.
Unorganized in
either ideas or
structure.

Primarily
organized with
occasional lack
of organization
in either ideas
or structure.

Clear
organization.
Ideas are clear
and follow a
logical
organization.
Structure of the
response is easy
to follow.

Relevance of
Response
(understanding the
chapter)

Lacks clear
understanding of
the chapter

Occasionally off
topic; short in
length and offer
no further
insight into the
topic. Lacking 2
or more of the
following: (1)
The text
assumptions (2)
implications of
the assumptions
(3) what the
author is
arguing for (4)
how the author
constructs their
argument

Related to
chapter
content; lacks
one of the
following: (1)
The text
assumptions (2)
implications of
the
assumptions (3)
what the author
is arguing for
(4) how the
author
constructs their
argument

Clear
understanding of
chapter content
and includes all of
the following:(1)
The text
assumptions (2)
implications of the
assumptions (3)
what the author is
arguing for (4)
how the author
constructs their
argument

Expression within
the response
(evidence of
critical thinking)

Does not express
opinions or ideas
about the topic

Unclear
connection to
topic evidenced
in minimal
expression of
opinions or
ideas

Opinions and
ideas are stated
with occasional
lack of
connection to
topic

Expresses
opinions and
ideas in a clear
and concise
manner with
obvious
connection to
topic