Time to make the donuts.
Whenever my alarm goes off at an ungodly hour—in this case, 6 A.M. on a Saturday—I am reminded of that iconic Dunkin Donuts commercial, when the old man wakes up at the crack of dawn and says:
Time to make the dooooonuuuuts.
I put on an outfit that I have laid out the night before. A blue collared shirt, pants, and a long, gray cardigan sweater. I want it to convey “professional“ and “respectable“ but it is more “Mr. Rogers“. Then I head out and walk to the bus. The only people I see this early on a Saturday morning are twenty somethings walking back to their apartment after a night of drunken revelry and Latinos walking to work.
I take the bus, then take the subway to Penn Station. This is the point when I get my coffee so I can emerge from my zombie state. They play classical music on the speakers here. I suppose this is supposed to distract you from the indigenous people of Penn Station: the drunks and the crazies.
After the train, I get off at Newark Penn Station (which is not to be confused with NEW YORK Penn Station. Thanks for making things NOT confusing, Government!) and then head to another bus. The bus drivers in Newark are different from their New York City counterparts in that when they see you running after them like a mad woman, screaming “Wait! PLEASE WAIT!!!“– they actually stop and let you on.
The bus is my favorite mode of transportation because you actually see the city. The streets are like arteries and as you run along them, you see the parts that are vibrant and healthy and the parts that are stifled and could use an angioplasty.
I admit that I was guilty of assuming that Newark was a run down city with a permanent pall of doom and gray hovering over it. Call it The Wire syndrome—when the media promulgates images of desolate streets, decaying buildings, and desperate people, it is easy to assume that all urban areas are like that.
But my assumptions are quickly refuted.
When you hear about Newark you hear about crime, drugs, murder, and corruption. You don‘t hear about the Iron Bound District and its large Brazilian and Portugese communities. You don‘t hear about all the different ethnic groups and restaurants. You don‘t hear about the city‘s history as one of the centers of the Industrial Revolution and burgeoning Jewish and Italian neighborhoods in the early 20th century. You don‘t hear about Philip Roth and American Pastoral. You don‘t hear about the campuses of Seton Hall and Rutgers or the community organizations or churches or the parks or the museums or the sidewalks. Yes, they have many sidewalks! Newark is very pedestrian friendly which is great for people who don‘t drive– and by people who don‘t drive I mean me.
But the most essential component of Newark–the part that the media often fails to recognize as the true nature of this complex city–is the people.
My ESL class is composed of a diverse group of people. The ages range from nineteen to sixty five. There is a mother and son taking the class together. There is an elderly married couple taking the class together. They are from Ecuador. They are from the Dominican Republic. They are from El Salvador. They all work during the week and have families to take care of.
But on Saturdays, they are students.
They call me “Teacher“.
“Teacher, how you say leaf in plural?“
“Teacher, can you check if this right?“
Some of the students are more shy and reserved. Others are quick to raise their hand. But all of them are hard workers and fast learners. I always have to prepare additional material because we whiz by the lessons of the day.
My class also has a great sense of humor. I was teaching them how to write numbers in English and describe someone‘s age. In one exercise, they learned to say, “My son is 44 years old.“ And one student says (in spanish) “Why is my son so old?“
This particular week I teach the class about nouns and adjectives. I teach them how to describe things using words like smart, intelligent, and beautiful.
At the end of class, as the students walk by and say “Good bye, Teacher“ and “Thanks Teacher“, some of them walk by and say:
“Beautiful class, Teacher.“
