Running Head: Education and My American Dream 1

When I came to school age, I went to school, and I loved it. I did what was asked and
never questioned it for a moment. I did my work because I was asked to do it, and assumed that
the path from pre-school to elementary to middle to high school and ultimately college was the
only one. I saw no exceptions around me – even though they were there. I assumed my
experiences were standard. They weren’t.
When I was in middle school, I learned that lots of people live in one house their entire
lives. They don’t move from city to city, and they certainly don’t live in other countries for long
periods of time.
When we moved to Australia when I was 5, I learned to appreciate strawberry milk at
snack time. I learned that McDonald’s passion fruit sundaes and ice cream birthday cakes were
the absolute best and that learning to read was super simple with a sentence maker. I learned
how to make friends and how to sing the Australian national anthem every day at the beginning
of school. When we moved back to America after a year and I had a thick Australian accent,
another kid told me I talked funny. I learned how to drop an accent in no time flat. I learned that
being different can be bad.
After high school when I went to college, I learned that one does not have to be on time
to class but that one does not have to skip that class instead of being embarrassed to come in late.
I learned that perfect grades are not necessary. When I told my granola friends that I was going
to Rush for a sorority, I learned that sometimes I make choices not because I feel strongly about
that path, but because missing that experience might cause regret. When I was pulled out of a
shower by a roommate who hadn’t spoken to me in weeks to watch the World Trade Center fall,
I learned that nothing is permanent. When on September 12, 2001, flags and wreaths, and
patriotic vitriol emerged in full force, I learned that patriotism doesn’t have to be showy, or
hateful or exclusionary, and that I don’t want it to be. When a beloved Theatre professor
expressed her reservations about the role of art in such trying times, I learned I didn’t want to
spend my days working for others’ entertainment. I wanted to do something valuable, though I
had no idea what that would be. A year later, when I decided to go back and complete the major,
I learned that I may never fully commit to one pursuit. I will always want to know and do and
pursue multiple avenues. And that’s ok.
When I joined the Peace Corps after college and lived in Ukraine, I thought I would learn
a language. I thought I would learn to live without hot water, and to make friends. And these
Education and My American Dream 2

things were true. But the real lessons were harder. When my host grandmother shoved me
across the room and screamed “Why are you here?”, I learned about the importance of the
Ukrainian family – that staying close to support each other emotionally and financially matters.
When an 8th grade student stayed after class to berate me about America’s historical view of the
world- simultaneously taking credit for and blatantly ignoring Russia’s sacrifice and leadership
in WW2 – in his 4th language, no less, I learned that history books are edited to fill a political
role. Those editor’s opinions had shaped my perception of the world. When I walked around the
abandoned stadium near my apartment, in parks and resorts where wood and iron had long ago
been stolen to be sold for scrap to heat the homes of the old, or when I watched old men and
women go through the garbage to survive, I saw the effect of the fall of a civilization that could
not repair itself. I learned and ultimately understood that it was not limited to something “over
there.” It could happen anywhere. When I watched BBC World coverage of angry Americans
attempting to build a wall across Mexico, and again when waters overtook New Orleans after
Katrina, I saw for the first time how America is viewed from the outside world. When reporter
after reporter asked “what are the Americans hoping to accomplish?” The response was
predictably silly – “I have no idea.” When I talked to Helen and Oksana about their anger at
watching the cloud of Chernobyl explode just outside of their doors, not understanding until later
that the world knew more about their plight then they were allowed to, I got my first glimpse at
the privilege of having free press and a moderately transparent government. When I spoke to
Olya about her experiences of serving food to workers like her first husband as they rushed to
build the sarcophagus around the unstable nuclear reactors, I learned about certainty. Yuri died
of cancer. Everyone she knew who went to help in Chernobyl died of cancer. Olya waited for
her cancer. I learned to appreciate glittery wallpaper and rugs on walls and beets, public
transportation, Communism, and soviet-propaganda. I learned what it was like to be an “other.”
After returning to America, I worked in an at-risk middle school near D.C. where 92% of
my students lived below the poverty line and most were English Language Learners. I learned
what it felt like to be the only white girl in the room. I learned how to pronounce the name
D’Asia three different ways. When Gerson told me “Yo Ms. Meyers, if you ever in DC, we got
yo back,” and I scoffed, “What, am I going to snap my fingers and an army of 12 year olds will
come to my rescue?”, his response of “you never know…” wasn’t just 12-year-old bluster. I
learned that both the Latin Kings and MS13 – gangs with huge presences in our neighborhoods
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and whose international leaders sent their children to our school together– that members of both
of these gangs had decided I was ok. I learned that I would be safe. I learned how to shop the
‘black girl hair aisle’ to make my cheerleader’s hair shine, and to help the students under those
ponytails understand that sometimes the best way to deal with rich white kid bullshit is to look
them dead in the eye and be sweet as pie. On spirit day when I wore the cheerleader’s
competition uniform to school, and students helped make sure my ponytail was high and my bow
shone just right, I learned that students listen and will give you what you give to them. I learned
that a school can feel like family. I learned that my culture and my once firm ideals were more
malleable than I’d once thought. And that those outside cultural changes had changed me.
I’ve learned that coming home again is hard. I’ve learned that very few people actually
want to know about your life changing experiences if those experiences will challenge what’s
comfortable for them. I’ve learned that rich white kids are broken and are sometimes worse off
than the poor kids who learned to be broken together. I’ve learned how to show students to use
their anger and their struggles to bring truth to a stage. I’ve learned that I’m better when I’m
challenged, even though I crave ease and simplicity. I’ve learned that I have no idea what’s
going to happen next. But I’m jazzed to find out.