Rhapsody

Browsing through old stuff on my computer, I found an essay I wrote a few years ago that I want to revisit by sharing it here. The essay was written for a competition around the question, "Which book has most inspired you as a writer?"... my answer surprised and intrigued me! here you go:

When I was six years old, Enid Blyton’s The Wishing Chair and The Magic Faraway Tree taught me to dream. As I grew older, Jonathan Livingston Seagull reminded me never to give up on my dreams. After I moved to college in America, Little Women gave me a family to turn to when I missed home, and Jane Eyre gave me the courage to be myself when it seemed like no one understood me. Crime and Punishment never fails to make me afraid of myself and those around me, whereas The Little Prince makes me laugh at both. Azar Nafisi’s Reading Lolita in Tehran reminds me how joyful, how empowering, and how life-transforming literature can be. Any of these lessons is inspiration enough for me to write.

But when I ask myself which single book has inspired my writing more than any other, I find the question inextricably linked to another equally hard question—the question of why I write in the first place. I think back to the seven-year-old in me who began scribbling “poetry” on scraps of paper. What drove her to write?

Smiling, I realize that the answer lies in a worn-out copy of the Roget’s Thesaurus, which occupies the place of pride on my bookshelf. With its musty smell, yellowed pages and loose binding, it is not the best thesaurus I have, but it is the most important book I shall ever own.

My mother gave me this thesaurus on my seventh birthday. This was her recognition of, and contribution to, the love of words that she could already see haunting her young daughter. Not knowing what to do with it then, I placed it on my bookshelf, where it patiently waited to be inaugurated two years later.

I first opened my thesaurus for an essay I was writing in my fourth-grade English class. The essay was titled “If I were a peacock,” and I was looking for a word that meant “happiness.” Out of the options my thesaurus offered, I chose “rhapsody,” not because I knew the difference between “happiness” and “rhapsody” but because it sounded beautiful, almost like something that peacocks could dance to. And thus began a lifelong romance with words.

I don’t write to teach; I don’t write to console or comfort; and I don’t write to empower or delight. I write because I love words. I love words, I love their melodies, and I love the feel of a new word—or a new way of using an old word—rolling over my tongue. I can still picture peacocks dancing to the sound of the word “rhapsody,” and I still delight in the nuances of the language, the subtle differences between words that my first thesaurus showed me. That’s why I write.

There’s another reason why that thesaurus inspires me—when I look at those worn-out pages, I think of my first cheerleader. How can I not be inspired when I think of the woman who believed in my dreams before I even knew what they were, the woman who gave me the tools to pursue my dreams before I understood why she was giving them to me? One day, I’m going to dedicate a book to her. That, too, is why I write.

Sometimes I am tempted to take off the fluorescent green tape that has held my thesaurus together for the last ten years and to have it bound once more. Sometimes, I am tempted to put a neatly printed sticker over the childish scrawl adorning (or ruining, depending on whether you appreciate children’s art!) its front cover. But I’ve always stopped myself just in time. The scribble and the green tape represent the child who loved this book so dearly that she wanted it to look pretty and never tear or fall apart. I have no right to take the book away from that child, or to take the child away from that book.

In that little thesaurus, there live the childish wonder at the music and beauty of words, the adolescent appreciation of the subtleties of the language, the young woman’s understanding of the importance of choosing her words carefully, a mother’s confidence in her daughter’s dreams, and the difference between happiness and rhapsody. What greater inspiration could any writer ever ask for?

Connections

We didn't have power at home for more than 24 hours... the most frustrating thing to come home to when you are sick and leave work early with the hope of getting some rest! But some fun came out of it too... like a midnight drive to India Gate for ice cream since it was too hot and sticky for either Mom or me to fall asleep. Still, it's a relief to have the power back-- how dependent we've become!

So, I'm working on an essay about random moments of connection for an earth charter thingy. As I brainstormed and wrote drafts, I realized something rather weird: all the most beautiful moments of connection with strangers that I could think of happened in Mexico. The old gentleman in the metro who chatted with me about his country and mine, then bought me VCDs about Aztec and Mayan cultures so that I could get a better sense of Mexican history. The wonderful little children and women in Zoatecpan. The lady in Ciudad de Puebla who I was buying a pair of earrings from... we began chatting, and she was so happy to meet someone from so far away working with her people that she presented me a little white pendant "para que nos recuerdes" ("so you remember us"). And then, Alfredo, the young man who sold beautiful little carved leather pulseras (bracelets?)... he asked me a question about India, I replied, and we ended up sitting down for a 2 hour long chat, during which he told me all kinds of things about his life, his profession, his frustrations, his friends, and god-knows-what-else in the middle of the Sunday bazaar! I never saw, heard from, or met any of these people again, but they are forever a part of my memories and of me. Why is it, though, that every single one of these happened in Mexico? I want to connect that beautifully, that deeply, with random strangers everywhere, but somehow it doesn't happen, not even in my own country. What is it about Mexico that embraced me so fully, that tugs me back so strongly? I wonder if I'll ever know.

A picture is worth a thousand words

The picture says it all.

Question 1: we often talk of how our buildings/ roads etc. are not accessible but only think in terms of ramps etc... would ramps alone make them accessible? And, as in the case of my 2nd floor office right now, even if we currently have too many resource constraints to actually get a ground floor or a place with an elevator, what are we doing in the meantime to at least be accessible to the 95% of the disabled population that may not use wheelchairs but may still have a hard time getting around because of other barriers? Time for a disability audit?

Question 2: If only 5% of the disabled population actually uses wheelchairs, how did wheelchairs become the universal symbol of disability? Because they are visible, easy to spot, unambiguous? So will we deny the recognition of disability to the not obviously, visibly disabled population?

Remembering

"Snapshots are shields--
What we remember in some way protects us"
-- Sylvia Curbelo, Photograph from berlin

She's so right. Memories have an amazing power to protect.

Today was an overwhelming day, for reasons too complicated to go into. So was yesterday, actually, what with all those long conversations about an issue so close to my heart... each chat was important but also draining. And so, when I woke up this morning, I had an overwhelming need to go back to memories.

I dug through my "memory bag"-- a collection of odds and ends, letters and cards, and all kinds of other stuff from people I've been close to in all my different lives in different places. First I dug out a Mexican pulsera-- how many meanings simple hand-woven bracelets came to have during my stay in Mexico. Symbols of solidarity-- Mauro made sure we all had one, and I remember buying one after the amazing conference at Huehuetla, and another at the women's cooperative near Cuetzalan, just to remind myself of the promises i made on each occasion. But now, it's a symbol of more than that. It's a symbol of the Mexico Summer Project, and thereby a symbol of synergy, of inner strength, of being able to do far more than I sometimes think I can. And of the friendship and the love and the support I received from the coordination, the people who believed in me more than I did sometimes. It also makes me laugh when I remember Mauro with his millions of pulseras, on both arms, and even on his legs! It also makes me smile at the memory of our parting in Mexico city, again so centered around a pulsera (sort of doubling as a rakhi) and a necklace... he still calls me his little sister. How much meaning in a simple few strands of string woven together.

Today, all those associations kept me going. I've tied this pulsera tightly to my wrist, and I'm wearing it until it simply falls off because i need to be reminded of these things. As I take on yet another set of impossible tasks, I need the reminder that I've done it before, successfully, meaningfully. I also need the reminder that I have this amazing international support group and network of friends-- from PhD students in the USA to far-from-wealthy farmers in Mexico-- who believe in many of the same things as I do and whom I can always count on.

My memory bag also revealed, somewhat ironically, the program of poetry I had prepared along with K on the theme of remembrance. I remembered his favorite lines from Wordsworth:

We will grieve not, rather find
strength in what remains behind,
In the primal sympathy
that having been will ever be
In the soothing thoughts that spring
out of human suffering.

In light of how things turned out, how ironic that those were lines I rehearsed with him so many times before our speech event, that he and I together prepared a beautiful program of poetry about the love of the remembered and the remembrance of love. That we talked endlessly about the strength that one gets from being able to remember even the things that didn't work out-- for him it had to do with his mother, for me, it now has to do with him. In a weird way, I have found "strength in what remains behind" and learned to be truly grateful for that short but incredibly meaningful friendship.

Yes, how grateful I am for friendship. Saurabh called from Bombay today, and it was simply wonderful to talk again to the person who probably knows and understands me better than anyone else does. 15 minutes of long-distance laughter with my best friend... and suddenly, all the day's fatigue vanished. On another continent, Megan is helping me put together the package for work on disability sensitization, while Diana is sending me a poster I loved but cannot find anymore, while Wendy offers me critique on an important piece of writing that only she would be able to critique for me. With all of that going for me, how can I not sail through?

Lots of time to think and write!

So... today is the third day in a row that I have woken up at 4:30 AM and kept going all day. Strangely enough, I had thought this would be tiring, but it's actually turning out to be rather energizing... spending a few hours in the morning reading, chanting, eating breakfast at lesiure, and writing for a while before I go to work. It's more to do, but now I feel I have a life again that goes beyond work... and that is significantly taking away from, rather than adding to, my stress levels. So, is it easier to maintain a discipline if you enjoy it? I don't know, but I hope so! These mornings before sunrise are hard, but I wouldn't trade them for any other mornings... I just need a way to remember that at the moment that the alarm sounds!

More conversations and ranting around the disability issue today. Had several wonderful conversations about that with different people at work today, the longest and most detailed (and, I'll admit, most emotional!) with my supervisor, but other equally important ones with various other colleagues too. Felt really good, now need to translate them into action. How do we sensitize ourselves, and the young we work with, to this kind of difference as well? How do we start including disability issues into our sessions on stereotypes, identities, power, etc.? How do we, despite constraints of funding etc, create an office space that can, physically and otherwise, welcome people with different kinds of needs and abilities? A lot of very crucial questions that i need to start finding feasible ways of addressing... even if just to maintain my own sanity and my love for the organization I work in. So there i go again, creating more work for myself but not (yet) regretting it!

The discussions I had today, though, were very interesting. I thought of Phat and Majid Tehranian and their insistence that a totally different kind of learning happens when you teach someone... different context, but in trying to explain all the thoughts, emotions, joys, and frustrations I was bringing to the table, I understood SO much about my own feelings around the issue; I was able to artciulate concepts that I had never fully even conceptualized. Like, when i felt unable to explain the condesc.ension that is implicit in the phrase "S/he has achived so much despite being disabled," I asked how my listener would respond to "She has achieved so much despite being a woman"... totally politically incorrect, of course. Well, then, why is that ok to say about a disabled person... and more often than not (or at least as often as not), it is said about disabilities that may not even have a direct bearing on the person's work... anymore than being a woman and having all the home responsibilties (still hardly shared between sexes) has a bearing on hers. So then? Of course, no example works as a direct explanation of another, but they did begin to drive home a point-- including, especailly, to me-- about how we treat disability as a different kind of difference, when it may not actually be that different in some ways. Not sure where we are going with that, but the process of articulating it all helps me figure out my own stances... and how much I am willing to fight and what I am willing to fight for. That's something.

Ideas/ suggested resources anyone? Send them in, please!

Affection

So. I'm dorky enough to sometimes just pick up the dictionary and read it... not often, but sometimes. When you really get down to reading all the meanings of a familiar word, or jsut reflecting on its roots, every so often you discover a new meaning that you had never noticed.

Like I cracked up after looking up "affection"

Affection means love. But it also means a malady or a disorder. To be affected has the obvious, common meaning, but then it also means to be pretentious. Check out this definition from Websters':

1) Good disposition, as towards another; fond attachment; kind feelings. Usually distinguished from love as less powerful or intense
2) a mental state brought about by any influence; an emotion or feeling (eg: to influence men by playing on their affections)
3) An abnormal state of the body; disease
4) the act of affecting or influencing or the state of being influenced
5) A property or attribute (eg: thought is said to be an affection of matter)

See synonyms under attachment, friendship, love, influence, disease.

haha, don't you love that? How did love, influence, pretentiousness, and disease come to have the same name?

Not a laughing matter

This was initially going to be a part of the previous entry, but then I realized it's important enough to me to merit its own rant! So here we go!

One important question kept coming to me over the last few days: Why is it ok to laugh at disability? Throughout the course of this workshop, and though many other days as well, I've been hearing jokes about someone or the other being blind/ deaf. Another that really upset me was when the Pizza Hut team said something about taking care of people with special needs, someone else laughed and said "matlab? agar koi langda-lula aa haya toh?". And everybody laughed.

(Of course, turned out that the team wasn't really talking about disability but about responding to "special needs" like giving a children's menu at a table where there were accompanying children... I didn't hear any talk about special needs in terms of people with disabilities... but that's not the point of this rant).

Of course, anyone from the workshop who reads this will say I'm over-reacting to nothing... what's the big deal about joking that someone is too blind to read the board, right? No, wrong. Ask someone who has been "too blind to read the board" most of her life. Someone who has struggled on a daily basis to navigate through traffic, to walk in the dark, to read and write. There' s nothing funny about the experience. And the more you laugh at it, the further you distance yourself from ever fully engaging with that person or understanding that person's reality.

Think about it for a moment longer. If you are a woman sitting with a group for 4 whole days, during which the only reference to women is to laugh at them or at the experience of womanhood, how would that make you feel? Is it really that hard to relate to?

Megan and I have had these chats often. Why do stereotypes/ prejudices about disability never make it (or hardly ever make it) into talks about inclusion and diversity? Is it because disability shatters that oh-so-flimsy argument people use to explain religious, national, racial, and often even gender equality: "these are just labels, but when you think about it, we are all really the same." When we look at someone with a disability (assuming it's a visible one), we know for a fact that, at least in one important sense, we are not the same. We can't wish that away, and it doesn't fit into our flimsy rhetoric about equality, so we quietly push it under the carpet and pretend that we just don't see it.

Who was it that talked about able-ism along with sexism, racism, and the other isms we commonly talk about in conversations about discrimination? Whoever it was had a very important point. Time to start recognizing that these jokes are no less, and perhaps more offensive, and time to start thinking about inclusion a little more broadly.

A glimpse into an unfamiliar world

I just finished attending an intensive 4 day workshop on Instructional Design and Facilitation Skills... came away with several interesting thoughts and tools to apply at work, as well as a sense of the irrelevance of some of them.

I'm remembering how, when I resisted the super-mechanical five paragraph essay format taught to us in freshmen year, Karen Bauman told me that it was okay to break the rules... once I had understood them. In my years as a tutor and writing fellow, I learned what she meant: new writers (or even old writers new to the academic essay format) needed those formats as a scaffolding to build upon... but once they had built, it was ok for the scaffolding to fade away. In fact, it should fade away-- who wants to see the scaffolding on a completed building? I learned it was ok to break the rules, provided one knew why one was breaking them; it wasn't ok to break the rules simply because one didn't know better.

I'm now going back to that in order to overcome my resistance to what often feels like too much structure in this instructional design process we have worked on over the last few days. It's the only way I know of striking a balance between what I know is a useful format and my own individual style of working (despite every professor's best efforts, I never successfully wrote an outline before writing my first draft but instead always used the outlining process to revise my first draft into a more coherent paper. Outlines right at the beginning would stump me because I needed to write my first draft to figure out what I wanted to say, and only then could I outline the most logical way to say it). So yes, I'm telling myself, I need to master these tools. But eventually, I need to make them work for me; I refuse to work for them. It's the only meaningful process for me, but it's going to take a lot of time and effort, and actually, a much greater mastery of the process. Darn it, why must I always make life more difficult for myself? ;)

The other thing about this workshop was the experience of representing the only NGO there, in a room full of corporates, most of them MNCs.

The first part was something between amusement and anger at the attitudes and assumptions that people brought to the table. One fairly high-level employee of one of the largest MNCs I know asks me why I chose to join the social sector... before I can even answer, she answers her own question for me, "I guess you are still young, so you probably don't yet feel prepared to take on the corporate world." Huh?! Wow, the arrogance of assuming that everyone is aspiring for the job you have, and that if someone doesn't get into it, it's because they are weak. I told her politely but firmly that I have no intention of ever joining the corporate sector and am passionate about the work I do; not sure the message hit home, but what else can one say?

A lot of other things, especially their attitudes vis-a-vis competition and "growth," the subtle in their tones as they talked about employees with "inferior capacity" when they simply meant employees who don't speak fluent English, and their largely discourteous and sometimes high-handed behavior towards the waiters serving us tea and lunch, really disturbed me. But all of this also convinced me yet again of the importance of a college education like the one I was fortunate enough to receive-- an education that does not seek necessarily to connect you to the social sector, but does demand that you be conscious of and sensitive to other people regardless of the nature of your work. And especially an education that demands you realize your debt of gratitude to people who never went to school and college-- to the masons who built the halls you study in, to the taxpayers whose money subsidizes your education, to the people who have cooked and cleaned and done all the chores that have allowed you to grow as you did. Once we are truly cognizant of this, could we possibly scold a waiter for forgetting to bring saunf at the end of the meal, or leave the place in a mess, saying that the rest is his problem, and not even bother thanking him for cleaning up after us?

Of course, I'm generalizing. Of course, not everyone in the social sector is aware of and sensitive to people... I've seen NGOs doing great work in the field but not speaking politely to the maid who cleans their office. And of course not everyone in the corporate sector is insensitive to others-- the founders of the organization I work for themselves came from the corporate sector.

Still, it's all important food for thought for me... and at the least I have come away concinvced I am not cut out for the corporate sector and grateful for everyone who showed me myself clearly enough over the last few years for the never even to have crossed my mind!

The Treehouse by Naomi Wolf

A lazy Sunday afternoon, curled up in my chair, reading "The Treehouse: Eccentric wisdom from my father in how to live, love, and see" by Naomi Wolf. A beautiful book about a beautiful person-- the kind of writing that makes you wish you had know the subject. Leonard, Naomi's father, was a poet and a teacher, and his words speak to me softly but powerfully.

The first chapter "Be still and listen" is exactly what I needed to hear right now, although I didn't know it. Yes, this is what I was seeking, time to be still and listen, time to create my own little "treehouse" where I can just be still and listen. Karen B had once told me that music didn't lie in the notes but in the silences between them; I'm relearning what she meant.

"Teachers are the people who are the living signposts of our life. They see you coming, and. prescient, they know in which direction you ought to go, and they point to it. They see into the heart of your matter" (Wolf, 11).

I've had teachers like that... so many of them. The fourth grade English teacher who wrote in my report card "Has talent, but needs encouragement." The sixth grade English teacher who knew I was a writer before I knew it. Sunita Ma'am, Anu Ma'am, Aaditto, Mrs. Mukherjee, all of who showed me directions I hadn't seen before but now can't imagine not having pursued. Ken, who did more for the writer in me than any other person, who showed me my way but perhaps never found his own; how I wish he had had a teacher as good as he was. Mauro in Mexico who trusted and pushed me to become the best facilitadora and strongest young woman I could be. James and Ted who found a way of bringing my passions and interests into every project; who never stood in the way of the direction I was pursuing. And, of course, above all, Sensei... how can I even sum that one up?

Thank you, dear teachers. There's so much more to say than that, but for now, I'll let the silence speak.

I bought a chair today. A nice big comfortable chair in which I can curl up to read or even sleep. I'd wanted a good chair in my room for a while (gotten tired of reading in bed) but never seen anything reasonably priced that i liked. This one was both-- lovely and reasonably priced-- and Mommy dear obliged by buying me it for my birthday!

So what if it is 4 feet in diameter and takes up half my room? It's my little safe haven inside the bigger safe haven called my room. It's funny; having this chair in my room makes me want to read more. Just like having a good fountain pen makes me want to write more. The chair demands that I sit there, curl up, stare out at the Gulmohar tree, and start reading. Do objects have the power to do that? To make me do what I already love but usually cannot find time for? Seems like it. Let's hope that effect lasts beyond the initial euphoria of the beautiful chair!

I spent this morning taking the online version of Instituto Cervantes' Spanish exam... glad to see I could still make sense out of most of it and get a good score. Planning on taking their advanced diploma exam later this year... if nothing else, it'll give me a good reason to study Spanish again. I miss Spanish!

I also miss pottery. Thought about enrolling for a pottery class over the weekends, so visited a nearby ceramics studio today. Just being in that room, looking at the tools and the glaze and the moving wheels made me long to play with clay again. Put myself down on the waiting list for their 6 month course... hoping some students drop that class so I can start soon! I hadn't realized how much i missed things like pottery, but all of last week was so stressful and I kept thinking back to those hours spent in the ceramics lab at SUA... how those hours rejuvenated rather than tired me out after long, stressful days! I know I could be biting off more than I can chew by taking on so many things, but I am going to do them . I need my writing spaces and my art spaces and my Spanish spaces in order to feel whole. And I cannot do anything well unless I feel whole.

This coming week promises to be even more hectic than the previous one, but I believe it will also be full of learnings. So here's to an early night today and lots of growth in the days to come!

Reflecting on a week's worth of reflections

I just got back from a 5-day office retreat in the mountains, quite close to the place where I spent my early childhood. It was a week filled with reflections and intense discussions about values, about people, about processes, about a lot of other things. It was a week filled with some wonderful conversations, some mad fun, and some weighty discussions. It was an intense week that brought forth a lot of different ideas and feelings-- some good, some bad, and most requiring much more processing before I can declare them to be either.

One thing is clear, though: I feel my life coming together. Random bits of my life from Mexico, from SUA, from Argentina, from my childhood in Himachal, and from here in Delhi are weaving themselves into each other. Links I never saw before are suddenly being formed. An email from James is feeding into a conversation with Ishani, Ashraf is echoing things Ken taught me, Mauro and Zoatecpan are becoming integral to my understanding of Pravah. My capstone is becoming part of workshops I am designing here, and the workshops I am designing here are informing the way I now read books from college. Some time back, I had written a poem about being more than patchwork, about how transplants grow into the host, and now I feel that becoming truer and truer of my life. My life is, indeed, turning out to be more than patchwork.

But I miss writing. I haven't lately had the time or space to write for myself, and I miss that. I hadn't realized how much I miss it until i was asked to share some of my poetry at the retreat on the night of my birthday. Having that space to share 2-3 of my poems with my colleagues, who are increasingly becoming friends and family, was a special and intense moment. I quickly realized just how much my poetry in particular, and my writing in general, defines me. I really need to create the time and space to do more of that. How, I have no idea, but somehow, I must.
Perhaps this blog is a good place to start. A place to record everyday stories, which are after all the most important stories. I need to find the time to write about that chatty autorickshaw driver who turned out to be a retired army officer, that funny signboard or that weird conversation in the bus. I need to celebrate the everyday parts of my life before I get overwhelmed by them. So, here's to hoping I can maintain this resolution and write at least a few times a week!

Student protest

With thanks to Aaditto and James for recommending this article from the nydaily. Way to go, kids!

Bronx 8th-graders boycott practice exam but teacher may get ax

Wednesday, May 21st 2008, 4:00 AM

Theodorakis/News

Students at IS 318 are protesting 'meaningless' tests.

Students at a South Bronx middle school have pulled off a stunning boycott against standardized testing.

More than 160 students in six different classes at Intermediate School 318 in the South Bronx - virtually the entire eighth grade - refused to take last Wednesday's three-hour practice exam for next month's statewide social studies test.

Instead, the students handed in blank exams.

Then they submitted signed petitions with a list of grievances to school Principal Maria Lopez and the Department of Education.

"We've had a whole bunch of these diagnostic tests all year," Tatiana Nelson, 13, one of the protest leaders, said Tuesday outside the school. "They don't even count toward our grades. The school system's just treating us like test dummies for the companies that make the exams."

According to the petition, they are sick and tired of the "constant, excessive and stressful testing" that causes them to "lose valuable instructional time with our teachers."

School administrators blamed the boycott on a 30-year-old probationary social studies teacher, Douglas Avella.

The afternoon of the protest, the principal ordered Avella out of the classroom, reassigned him to an empty room in the school and ordered him to have no further contact with students.

A few days later, in a reprimand letter, Lopez accused Avella of initiating the boycott and taking "actions [that] caused a riot at the school."

The students say their protest was entirely peaceful. In only one class, they say, was there some loud clapping after one exam proctor reacted angrily to their boycott.

This week, Lopez notified Avella in writing that he was to attend a meeting today for "your end of the year rating and my possible recommendation for the discontinuance of your probationary service."

"They're saying Mr. Avella made us do this," said Johnny Cruz, 15, another boycott leader. "They don't think we have brains of our own, like we're robots. We students wanted to make this statement. The school is oppressing us too much with all these tests."

Two days after the boycott, the students say, the principal held a meeting with all the students to find out how their protest was organized.

Avella on Tuesday denied that he urged the students to boycott tests.

Yes, he holds liberal views and is critical of the school system's increased emphasis on standardized tests, Avella said, but the students decided to organize the protest after weeks of complaining about all the diagnostic tests the school was making them take.

"My students know they are welcome in my class to have open discussions," Avella said. "I teach them critical thinking."

"Some teachers implied our graduation ceremony would be in danger, that we didn't have the right to protest against the test," said Tia Rivera, 14. "Well, we did it."

Lopez did not return calls for comment.

"This guy was far over the line in a lot of the ways he was running his classroom," said Department of Education spokesman David Cantor. "He was pulled because he was inappropriate with the kids. He was giving them messages that were inappropriate."

Several students defended Avella. They say he had made social studies an exciting subject for them.

"Now they've taken away the teacher we love only a few weeks before our real state exam for social studies," Tatiana Nelson said. "How does that help us?"

(Article from: http://www.nydailynews.com/ny_local/education/2008/05/21/2008-05-21_bronx_8thgraders_boycott_practice_exam_b-1.html)