College Prep Poetry Contest, November 2012

 Winners and Organizers

I am very proud of my student (center) Thelma Moraga for winning 4th place, and I would like to personally thank the contest organizers Ildiko Barsony(left)  Karen Taghi Zoghi(right) and Nancy Fagel for preparing such a spectacular event that showcases our students and rewards their creative talent. 

Vladimir Manic Exhibit: North Campus Art Gallery

Prof. Cueto's classes visit the Art Gallery at North  

  Vladimir Manic Exhibit 

Rights by Prof. Bert Lorenzo

There’s much talk of rights.

Vote, say, do, take whatever.

One owes 99.

And responsibility?

I don’t hear much talk of it.

It’s too much work.

Copyright Bert Lorenzo, 2012

A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME by Prof. Harold Mahabir (Doc)

   “Could I help you?” asked the old, bespectacled woman perched behind the reception desk.

   “Yes,” I said trying to be decorous and respectful, “I’m trying to locate Linda Cofoni; I’ve been assigned to be her instructor.”

     Unperturbed, she glanced at her computer screen trying to locate Linda’s room.

    “That will be 112,” she said, cutting a half smile.

     I had responded to the Department’s request to be a hospital instructor because of the lucrative hourly rate.  Given a choice of work places, I would have preferred almost any other to the County Hospital.  It had the unsavory reputation as the health net for the incorrigibles of the city.

     A rotund nurse, with an oddly impersonal voice, showed me room 112, and I entered with ambivalence heightened by curiosity.

     I was intimidated by the silence of the room and I saw a figure, noiseless as a ghost, lying in an immaculately white hospital cot.

     “Are you Linda?”

     “Yes,” came the faint response from the young woman who remained transfixed; eyes unblinking.  She appeared smitten by a terrible sickness.  Her cheek bones resembled those of an anorexic and were even more pronounced because of her small frame.

      Miserably juggling with the unavoidable initiation of introducing myself, I said, Linda, my name is Doc, and I been assigned to be your instructor until the end of the semester.”

      There was no facial response; no delight, no disgust, no glimmer of an eye.  In fact, I am not sure whether or not she even looked at me through the motionless slits of her eyes.  A profound silence dominated my nervousness in the passing minutes, but I had to appear calm and conscientious.

      “I will do my best to assist you in the area of reading and comprehension.  Perhaps if time permits, we can also work at improving your vocabulary.” Those last words carried the slightest hint of sarcasm.

       Again, there was no observable reaction or response. Awkwardly, I waited five minutes. “How long have you been here?”

       Her response was so soft and delicate that I had to read her lips.

       Five weeks for a young person to lie immobile is a long time.  As a novice psychologist, I tried to comprehend her mental state; her reaction to people—especially to people who stood before her white fastidious shrine, whole and in bodily capacity.  Of course she was apathetic.

        That night was spent in arduous and painstaking work compounding and processing mental drugs like a chemist in his lab. After an hour, I took a break.

In the corridor, I saw a leeway-set nurse.

       In a raw, Southern accented tone she said, “So you are Linda’s new instructor,

right?”

       “Right!”

      

 “Good luck! You are her fifth instructor in the past month.  The last one left in disgust, she’s a hard nut to crack and I’m not fooling!”

        “Thanks for telling me.”  Warily, I thought, I should have said, “Thanks for the discouragement!”  I was shaken by her ignorance and became more determined to face the challenge.

        I entered room 112 surreptitiously ambivalent, carefully monitoring the tone of my Caribbean accent and my face to reflect confidence and cheerfulness

that I should have had.

        “You know what, I think you will get better soon. I saw a little old lady in a wheelchair and I asked her how she was doing, she replied, ‘I’m living!’ That’s a

happy outlook to life, don’t you think?”

         I got a nod accompanied by a half-hearted smile.

         Before my time had expired, I had read two short stories to her about “The

Little girl of Mango Street.” I shared my feelings about the stories.  I asked if she had questions about them.  I had anticipated correctly, no response.

          The next day, I pondered my motives. Was it money or the burning desire to reach the mind of this young girl?  Confused thoughts were raining havoc on my mind.  Trying to find sufficient time to reflect, I grabbed the water hose and started to spray the roots of my roses. Roses? An idea instantly slapped my disjointed thoughts.

          The next day, I headed for the County Hospital.  I entered her room with a new plan. I saw bright piercing eyes and without skipping a beat, I handed her a rose.

          “This rose is as beautiful as you and I wanted you to have it.”

          “So nice of you,” she said trembling visibly.

          I was shocked by her clear tone; shocked that the rose had evoked such a responsive chord. Now her true radiance broke the indifference that had greeted me just days ago.

       Suddenly, under a state of pleasant bewilderment, I read to her the Diary of Anne Frank .

       Weeks hurried by; we exchanged gifts, cards saying, “Thank you, Doc,” were somber and poignant.  It came from a heart which formerly had been unreachable.

       One Monday, I was greeted with a knitted scarf that read, “Thanks, Doc. Love, Linda.” Little kind gestures made me intensify my pace.  I had now found a heart that was hungry and I wanted to feed it with human love.

       On a cold night in December, I made my way to Linda’s room. The bed was empty.  Maybe she had been relocated. The nurse, who had been indifferent to my quest at the beginning, informed me that Linda had been taken to the Intensive Care Unit on the First Floor.

      

       Judy, the Head Nurse, watched my approach.

      “Are you Doc?”

      “Yes.”

      “There’s a note here for you.”

      “Where’s Linda?”

      “Behind that blind.”

      My human instincts took control; I didn’t want to look. My fingernails ripped through the note. I forced myself to glance through the gaping slits of the blind.  Her body was wrapped in white linen.  And I sat, head in hands; tears trickling down my cheeks as I reluctantly looked at the note:

         “Dear Doc,

                          I waited for you and begged the nurse to give me a little time before they    

                          rolled me here. They said they could not wait.  I am lying here thinking   

                          about the joys you have given me. Your reading has opened my mind to a 

                          whole new world of people,nature and things. Doc, I hope you continue to 

                          read to me. I hope you never stop. You are a good teacher and I want you 

                          to  know that you made me a better person.  I must go now, for I see a  

                          nurse with a tray followed by three doctors entering my room. See yah.

                                                                                                                      Love, Linda”

    

       I had arrived fifteen minutes late.  Linda had developed more complications several minutes after having written her note. She had fallen unconscious and died suddenly.

       Today, I read and teach the Lindas of the world. My motivation comes from the spirit of hope and enlightenment which are manifested by young people who are gradually transformed from the dark world of ignorance.

        There is a rose in my heart for Linda; a rose for anyone who crosses my path in search of that light and knowledge.

Prof. Harold Mahabir (Doc)

Note: This is a true short story.

          

START by Professor Bert Lorenzo

Everything feels new.

The academic year starts.

There’s so much to learn.

The term soon feels old.

Why’s the semester so long?

Will it ever end?

Copyright Bert Lorenzo, 2012

Creative Art by Mr. Mison Blazquez

Batman Arkham Asylum by Mr. Mison Blazquez

Optimus Prime by Mr. Mison Blazquez

End

The semester ends.

You probably learned a lot.

Put away old books.

Learning never ends.

Spend more money on new books.

New semester starts.

Books as Keystones by Ms. Carmen Welsh

Years ago, before I was diagnosed with Hyperthyroidism "Grave's Disease", I had to undergo a series of tests.

At the medical center that had the proper equipment to scan me for goiter, my nervous mother beside me in the waiting room, I currently read "See Jane Win", ground-breaking book by Dr. Sylvia Rimm. In this brilliantly-written study over a course of 1,000 successful women, Dr. Rimm, who co-wrote the book with her two daughters, also 'Dr.s' in their own right, posed several scenarios that a young girl raised under such conditions becomes successful in life regardless of socio-economic, ethnicity, or even by family education status.

The more I read, the more I agreed with the cases of 1,000 women. From all walks of life, women who grew to prominence in their chosen path, or a career that became theirs, began as curious girls, often  thirsty for knowledge, versed in certain math- or science-related fields, had taken music lessons, had several interests, hobbies, etc.

Finally, I was called to the reception area, where sat a young woman who shared my ethnicity. We greeted one another, and after I answered her questions related to my impending examination, she asked me what I was reading.  I explained, quite enthusiastically, what the book was about in a nutshell. She looked at me and quite dismissively shrugged and said, "Well, I only read books written by Black people."

That stopped me cold. That made me upset. And then infuriated me.
Was she not a woman? Did she not care, as a woman, what MADE a successful woman, and what evidence there was to support the reasons these 1,000 Women became successful?

No, she must've believed that such subject matter or topic could only come from someone Non-Black, and therefore, refuse its wisdom or knowledge.

Now I love many of the Black writers of the past.   I love my Black writers now, and I am a future Black writer myself. However, how could she say such a thing? How could she, in her race-loyal ways, belittle the sum of human knowledge to only reading topics EXCLUSIVE to one race? And if she only reads Black writings, would that be only Black-American, Black-Caribbean, or Blacks from Africa or other overseas places? And if this is the case, does she read writings from Black professionals, regular Joes, or only those that work in a medical office? 

 

If she is Christian, then she cannot read the Bible, since many of its writers were not 'Nubian'. And she probably does not know that the famous movie about race and the all-consuming fight among Blacks of 'Light vs. Dark' "Imitation of Life", was actually written by Fannie Hurst, a young, Jewish woman?

We learn to be writers by having something to say. But first, we must read widely to have something in our head in order to write. I hate to think of how little this medical office employee knows, or how limited and narrow is her experience. Most frightening to think still: she's college educated, or, at least received certification in her field. How did she bypass this prejudiced view when digesting her own textbooks? 

 

We owe it to ourselves as human beings to read widely, to take in as much of human wisdom as is available to us. It's been seven years since this conversation and it still burns me. I only hope this young woman has grown a little from having such childish views.

An Intelligent Decision by Professor Bert Lorenzo

We live in an ever increasingly sophisticated society. I’ve written before about this and about the consequences that those who do not prepare for complexity will suffer.

You can find a lot of writing about the current economic climate and its causes. Joe Cardona recently summed it well in The Miami Herald. “What is the new American reality? The answer lies in the overwhelming financial burdens most Americans face. Technology, outsourcing and an alarming rate of poorly educated, unemployable workers have led to a stagnant, no longer upwardly mobile middle class.”

I haven’t read anyone write about the economy with Cardona’s honesty. Many can’t find work because they have nothing to offer employers. This includes unemployable PhD’s. I’ve met many people with extensive schooling who I wouldn’t trust to do even the most basic work.
What does Cardona mean by “poorly educated”? What does well educated mean? What should a college education supply a graduate?

I remind my student they must answer these types of questions and take responsibility for their education. They must make sure they get what they need. To sit in a classroom doesn’t guarantee anything. Only what students do to educate themselves not what teachers do will guarantee the type of knowledge and ability to function happily in the 21^st century. We spend very little time in a classroom and with professors so we have much to do outside of class to develop the skills, brain power and attitude to succeed in a complex world. We’ve created a world similar to the one Herbert Spencer described 150 years ago. In our case we can call it survival of the intellectually fittest. The least fit will survive but only in the lowest rung of the economic food chain.

Consider this. In a recent commentary in the scientific journal Nature a group of psychologists found the average teenager gets smarter with each generation based on IQ tests. The tests when constantly adjusted to keep the average at 100 helped them conclude that the same teenager would have scored 118 in 1950 and 130 in 1910. The teenager with an average score today would’ve scored at near genius level a century ago. More importantly this means a near genius 100 years ago would have only average intelligence in our complex world. What the average could do 100 years ago now takes 30 more IQ points.

Sadly our current president has sent young people the wrong message. He should explain to the young about the type of education and intellectual development needed to make it to the White House or to develop great wealth. Instead of instruction on the type of education he received and his own intellectual preparation we get speeches about how the most intelligent among us cause our problems. We don’t need to increase our intelligence to solve the problems we face. We need to confiscate more from the most productive. Ayn Rand had it right in Atlas Shrugged. We don’t deserve what the creative class does for us.

With all this said I rank increasing their intelligence as the most intelligent decision students should make. Neuroscientists have put to rest the old debate about whether humans have fixed intelligence and brains. We now know we can change our brains throughout our lives. Neuroscientists call this natural ability brain plasticity. This means that through the appropriate exercises, activities and habits individuals can increase their intelligence.

I define intelligence as the ability to think abstractly. Those with the most of this ability move humanity forward. The more intelligent the easier individuals can learn, the better they can reason and the more self-awareness they develop. More intelligence leads to more emotional knowledge or empathy, better ability to plan and solve problems and most importantly to superior memory.

Through superior memory we develop and make ours that all important ingredient to superior intelligence-general knowledge or what psychologists call crystallized intelligence. General knowledge differs from specialized knowledge, skill or the things a technician may have the ability to do.

In part two of my essay I’ll discuss things we can all do to take advantage of brain plasticity and increase our intelligence for as essayist Charley Reese once wrote, “If there’s anything this world needs it’s more brainpower”.

Copyright Bert Lorenzo, 2012