Smile

"Spare change."

I pause, turn and look at the person sitting on the sidewalk, "Sorry, not today."

My friend Nick once made fun of me for saying this, ("Not today?  You gonna come back tomorrow?") but I really mean it.  Today I am a volunteer, living on a stipend that doesn't cover rent.  Tomorrow I could have a full time job, with a salary and benefits, and that will be a different conversation about the change in my pocket and whether or not I really need it.

In this situation, I usually hear several times a week, "You have a beautiful smile."  Usually from the men.  Many people tell me that is creepy, but I think this is one of the nicest compliments to hear from someone you don't know very well.  I don't feel it's objectifying, it doesn't make me uncomfortable, and although it's a comment on a physical feature, I don't think it really is.  I think people tell me I have a beautiful smile because they see genuine happiness behind it.

I try to soften my face toward the world and give the same smile to my bus seatmate as I do the woman in the elevator at the doctor's office, Wings at Starlife Cafe making me lunch, the beggar or vendor or busker on the sidewalk, the cashier at the grocery store.  I think opening an interaction with a stranger with a smile shows the other person that I am happy to be sharing a moment with them, that I am excited about the possibilities in the world, that I am a friendly, optimistic, hopeful, happy person.

No one has told me I have a nice smile this week.  Polly was a reference for a job application of mine recently, and she told me she was a big advocate for me to get the job, because I'm an authentic person with everyone I meet, no matter how different we are.  I haven't been feeling as authentic this week, which is probably why no one is raving about my beautiful smile.  I still have the moments with strangers I've started writing about each day, but I think the people I interact with can tell I'm struggling.  I'm being pulled inward by my thoughts, I'm engaging but only on a surface level.  I'm consumed by my own feelings and less open to creating a relationship with everyone I meet.

A student cancelled our appointment this morning.  I called to reschedule.  The student, Maurice (or Marty) started to ask some questions about where he should go to school, UW, or community college?  I gave him the standard answer that I've learned, community college is cheaper, the classes are smaller, the teachers are there to teach, some at UW are there for research first.  He started to say more: he was an African-American male so he could get some diversity scholarships, he was interested in playing football.  I tried to cut him off politely, and let him know this was Polly's area of expertise.  I scheduled an appointment for him and Polly to meet, because she does the career and academic counseling, I'm just the tutor.

He was persistant though, and kept me on the line.  He wanted to be a teacher, he said.  If he got grants in Washington, did he have to teach in Washington, or could he go back to Georgia, where he really wanted to teach?  He finally had me listening.  "I went to school to be a teacher too," I said.  "Have you heard of the TEACH Grants?  You'll have to teach in the state of Washington for four years, but then you can go teach wherever you want.  And you have to teach in a high needs school, at risk students, special ed, something along those lines."

"That's what I really want to do," said Maurice.  He explained that what he cared about most was going home to Georgia to teach in some of the neighborhoods that he knew needed the most help, connecting with the at risk, the under-served, the troubled youth.

"What do you want to teach?" I asked.

"Math," he said.  "My passion is music, but so many schools are cutting Fine Arts programs, I know I won't get a job if I get a music degree and try to work in the schools."  He went on to talk about how he decided math was the next best thing, because of how connected music and math were.  Music has patterns in it, math is about patterns.  Music has rhythm and measures, math is about counting and multiplying.

I interrupted him to talk about integrative learning, and how he was inspiring me.  I told him I also taught math, and one thing I'd learned is that most students fear math, usually because of one awful teacher that made them feel that they were bad at math, when really the student had been failed by the public education system.  I was growing excited listening to Marty describe what sounded like an integrative approach to math education, using music to teach students math.

"I'm just getting started," Marty laughed, amused by my enthusiasm.  He recommended we sit down sometime so I can hear his whole story.  That should happen this Friday and I can't wait.

He started to say it was more specific than music, he wanted to teach students math using a drumline.  The counting, the rhythms, the discipline needed on a drumline would translate impeccably well with math.

I had to end the conversation, because I had to meet with another student.  Going through a funk isn't usually solved in one moment, or even through one night.  I think it can be solved with a thousand moments like this.  I was trying to stay on the surface, to close myself off.  I was trying to schedule this student with Polly and get off the phone because I felt tired, drained, hopeless, defeated, overworked, and hectic.  Instead Marty pushed me to listen to him, really listen, and that moment made me take a breath and remember that I have a beautiful smile to share with the world, and it is most genuine when I take the time to connect with someone the way Marty challenged me to connect.