Portfolio national writing project 2016

National Writing Project In New Hampshire Summer Institute 2016 Writing Portfolio

By

Diรณmedes Fernรกndez

Diómedes Fernández Portfolio Narrative Many years ago, as I researched aspects and traits of personality theories, I came upon the teachings of Gurdjieff in a book called “In search of the miraculous” by Peter Ouspensky. In the 1949 book he explains how there is no individual, but a group of different personalities that inhabit one body and fight with each other to take turns behind the wheel. I thought about it for quite some time and came to the conclusion that if this theory was right, my 3 dominant personalities where: The Writer, The Teacher and The Philanthropist.

When I was invited to the writing Institute I could not believe that two of my main passions could coexist in one place. I never saw myself as a teacher of writing even though there was some writing done in my classes. I got to New Hampshire and this was precisely the first thing I noticed about the other participants. Very few of them were teachers whose solely mission in the classroom was teaching how to write. And this was the first lesson I learned. We are all teachers of writing, it doesn’t matter if your subject is science or arts - in my case civics and ethics – because all of our students expressed themselves thru writing assignments.

As a writer, the most important experience for me was to write every day. Some people say that it takes 30 days to brake a habit or start a new one. To me it has just being amazing to have the opportunity to do this. It is something I have been wanting to do my whole life but had always found an excuse not to accomplish. Work, the pressures of everyday life and family responsibilities had always been reasons I gave myself as to why I wasn’t able to do it, but as one of our guest speaker – Mrs. Krill – said: “It’s not about finding the time to write, it’s about making the time to write.” It was an unbelievable effort on my part and my families’ to set aside this 5 weeks to commit to this program, but it was done not for me to

live an experience but for me to start something, to create a new path for myself. Today is my 30 th day of writing nonstop.

Another aspect of the Institute that was equally important has to do with teaching. I have always spoke to my friends and colleagues of what I have termed “the paradox of the educator”. To me, it is a paradox that in our profession we are always surrounded by people, but it is one of the craft where loneliness is experience the most. I guess it is similar to what kings experienced in the middle ages, a lot of people around you, but no one really at your level. You may spend your day with twenty 3 rd graders around you, parents and faculty, and still not be able to answer the question “how are you doing?” honestly.

Spending these weeks sitting in a circle with people so different than me, but with one thing in common: the fact that we are all teachers; really made a difference. I felt this experience was similar to veteran support groups or Alcoholics Anonymous, I was able to share my most celebrated practices and experiences as well as my deepest regrets and failures as a teacher in an environment where I felt safe and not judged.

I believe that protocols were the key factor to create this environment. I could not stress the importance of protocols enough. Protocols are the back bone of the whole experience. It is evident that they are not the product of a simple idea, but the end result of years and years of fine tuning. It was also very interesting for me to see how they are pretty much alive today and not set in stone. Changes were tried and implemented during this Institute to see if they could work even better, which leads me to believe that as years progress protocols will even become more effective.

Two particular ways in which protocols helped me were in the process of sharing and revising. This two aspects of the writing process I used to dread and were probably what I enjoyed the least about being a writer. When I started writing at the age of 15, I promised myself that I would not show what I wrote to

anyone. I told myself that I did it to feel free of writing anything without having to think of what other people thought about the topics I chose. As I matured I understood that it probably was just fear of rejection. I feared at some unconscious level that if people didn’t like what I wrote, they wouldn’t like me. As years went by, the rational understanding of this fact did not make me change how I felt about sharing my work. I can honestly say that until I came to the institute, I had not found the joy in sharing what I wrote.

Revising was the other big aspect of my writing life that experienced a drastic change. I have been trying to find the concept to express what was lifted like some weight I carried on my shoulders, I think it was anxiety. Before the institute I felt that a piece should come out perfect on the first try otherwise it was some sort of a failure on part of the writer. Every time anything needed to changed or added was just another proof of the poor abilities to convey the message properly. All these also at an unconscious level, of course. But after this summer Institute, and more specifically, after reading the piece “Shitty first drafts” everything changed. It is hard to describe it, but it was like a 180 degree change, something that I used to do with an almost sense of shame, now produces in me the greatest joy. Now I am able to enjoy all aspects of the writing process, not just the end result.

There is another aspect of the protocols that is inextricably linked to the last two I just talked about. It is almost a perfect mix between sharing and revising: The process of receiving feedback. Having somebody else read one’s drafts and comment on then, if done out of respect and love, is one of the most wonderful experiences a writer can have and that I was able to live here at the Institute. Far from a cold, destructive critique one may receive from a distant editor, I learned that feedback could be a great tool that helps to see the story in a different perspective and discover parts of the piece that may seem quite clear for the writer but no so much for the reader.

I found myself expecting author’s visits more every week. All of them with very different and unique styles and perspectives really gave us a feeling of what it is to be a professional writer. From Matt Chaney I will never forget his references to Narcissus, the motivation he ignited in me to write from the perspective of a female character and his relentless pursue of becoming an “Activist of the Imagination”.

Janna Smiths and her husband David’s visit meant a lot more to me than just the sharing of two authors.

Just seeing them together after 40 years of marriage was inspirational in many levels. The ideas she developed about shame were very insightful and his reading from his experience in the classroom, a marriage longer that the one he has with his wife, was admirable. Mrs. Krill and her story of her “Krilcycles” was nothing short of amazing. The fact that it was her first book made me relate to her, and the fact that she brought her students with her - and her experience with the girls hiking and writing group - made me realize what a real teacher is supposed to be; not just a job, but a life shared. I found her technique of receiving feedback from her students in google docs as she wrote a novel for teenager to be groundbreaking and bold.

When I began the Institute I wanted to take this experience as a challenge. For that reason I decided that unless instructed to, I would not write any assignment in poetry, the genre I’ve been writing for more than 25 years. Just this made the NWPNH Summer Institute and experience of incalculable value and growth for me as a writer. In this portfolio I include 20 pieces written during the morning “quick write” exercises and other occasions where we were asked to write during teacher explorations or author visits, most of them were written with a specific prompt in mind and with time frame no longer than 10 minutes. Some are unfinished or “starts” that I would definitely would pursue in the future.

The 3 main pieces in this portfolio: A personal narrative, an open piece and a teacher lore each represented a different challenge to create. The idea for the personal narrative came from a novel I have always wanted to write but never quite got around to it. This idea was supposed to be the beginning of

the first chapter and it was something that had been always in my head. To see in now in paper bring a very exiting feeling because now I know it can be done and I have experienced exactly how to go about it. The written response I got to it was really important in terms of where I want to take the piece and it made me re-think what I wanted to the extent of deciding to change the 1 st person perspective for a broader narrator’s point of view. Peer’s comments were also very helpful and their ideas can definitely be appreciated in how the piece changed from the 1 st draft to the final draft.

The open piece came from a line in the personal narrative where I speak about the name of the street I grew up in. I understood how powerful this story was for me and how important it was that it was told as part of the identity of Dominicans. Since our group here at the Institute is comprise of a lot of participants from this nationality, I wanted to write something so that the rest of the group could understand better who we are and where we come from. This is the piece I feel most proud about because of its complexity. I had to do a great amount of research to produce it as faithful as possible to the actual events that occurred over 500 years ago. Trying to use a vocabulary that was a hybrid between what was used in that era, but also keeping it fresh for today’s reader was also very important to me. I wanted to retell this story for readers that were not necessarily interested in history but in a fast paced story filled with twists and turns. The response I got from most people who used the word “engaging” was exactly where I was aiming at. There are still a few things here and there that I want to adjust and trim but overall I feel that I set to climb Mount Everest, and even though I haven’t reached the top, I am having a great time on my journey and that eventually I will get there.

For the open lore I was preparing a poem. First out of exhaustion from all the work done during the weeks before, and second because I wanted to write something similar that I had done with a class years ago where I wrote something about each student. I wanted to do something similar with all participants of the institute, but still didn’t want to brake my “oath” of not writing poetry and pushing myself to the limit. I had already began working on the piece when we were asked to write a letter as a response to

the reading “Touched by the past”. What came out of the exercise was something that seemed innocent but ran deep within me. It was a clash in concepts of what an ideal teacher should be, and the unreal expectation society lays upon teachers, and even worse, that we impose upon ourselves. So the time came to “de-mystify the milky way” - as poet Mario Benedetti used to say – and end my relationship with Mr. Keating, the teacher from the movie Dead Poets Society. This piece was challenging to write not because of the words that had to be used, but for the emotions it brought out in me.

I take many things with me from this 5 week experience that has changed me not only as a writer but as a human being. One is that I learned that in order to teach something one has to not only talk the talk, but also walk the walk. It is unconceivable to me now that a teacher does not write with his/her students while they are doing it. As we learned in the piece “This I believe”, we can’t teach someone how to drive without getting in the car with them. Another truth realized here is that writing is the best way of spending time with the most important person in the world: yourself. Now I see writing as a process in which the best thing the writer gets out of, is quality time with his own thoughts. And last, but not least, the most important thing I learned in the NWPNH Institute 2016 is that teaching how to write is teaching how to think. The implications of truly understanding this statement has led me to re-think the path I am using to achieve my higher goals in life. Having a class that is called “pensamiento” (thought or thinking) is just meta-talking about the process, but not actually doing the thinking. It’s teaching about thinking, not teaching how to think. Now, I can’t wait to empower myself as a writing teacher.

Which takes me to the last of the personality traits that I consider the driving forces in my life: The Philanthropist. The only reason why I am not going to mourn the end of my time here as if a close friend had died is because of PEN (Proyecto Nacional de Escritura). The National Writing Project of the Dominican Republic that is now just in its beginning stage and needs all the energy I can give to it. I cannot wait to go back home and start sharing with other teachers and writers the many life changing

experiences I was so fortunate to receive here. Finally, The Writer, The Teacher and The Philanthropist will be able to peacefully inhabit this body and work together towards the same goal.

National Writing Project

In New Hampshire Writing Exercises

By

Diรณmedes Fernรกndez

1 First Kiss

I believe it all started with Neruda in the classroom when I was 15 years old. A way of expressing the thousands of love and unloved stories of that age. I started writing by reading. I discovered how someone could say a lot better than I what I was feeling. Then came the time where I couldn't find the poem that describes exactly and in detail what I felt. The time for writing had arrived.

The first form was something so practical that I am ashamed of it. It wasn't the cry of a tormented soul.

Neither a collection of deep thoughts destined to raise humanity. It was just a tactic to receive a kiss‌ Which never came.

I did not love her, I was in love with another, my best friend, to whom I dedicated all the forms that followed for a couple of years. I never showed them to her, so in this case also, there were no kisses.

In the end, I did manage to share them with someone who I love - and that love me too - and then, kisses finally arrived.

2 My City

Since I was a kid I remember having lived between the same two streets. Two parallel lines that have served to limit my movement in the island. Three houses, four decades, a thousand experiences, all trapped between the same two parallel lines.

This is my home. It doesn't matter in what part of the planet I find myself. The center of the island that in some unfair way makes everything and everyone revolve around it.

I love it and I hated.

It seems unbelievable but it has changed more than me. Few places remained intact since my childhood.

I have changed a lot, but makes the city has changed even more.

I love it because it has always taken care of me, I hate it because it is the true reflection of the social injustice in which we live in.

And every day it grows more towards the sky, towards infinity. So high because we believe that with this progress we will reach God, forgetting the ones that stay down below.

But I love it as I love all my imperfections. I love it because we are the same.

Maybe that is why I hate it too.

3 Travels

During some time in my life I travel a lot. The journey started in 1999 as if the end of an era was coming.

I became a bartender and went back to school, maybe because of that movie I once saw as a child where Tom Cruise flipped bottles in the air. Anyway, I used to come back to the island a lot during those years. I remember a black T-shirt that I love wearing when I traveled. I remember the kisses that waited for me.

As I came and went I had the opportunity to create beautiful friendships test you live inside of me. Koldo in Spain, Joey in Pittsburgh, Rafa in Dominican Republic. I was as big as the world. I was all of them. I was only me. All was available, none was mine.

It is funny how the world can be such a big place and still feel so small. Like uncle Whitman once told me: I am everywhere – I am everything.

Prompt: Include places you've lived, jobs you’ve had, names of old friends, kisses you remember, a piece of clothing and a movie.

4 My name

I have always wondered if I would give my name to a male offspring. When I was growing up I would ask that question to any girl I started dating." If we ever have a son, and was know for sure that you would have a problem with naming him Diómedes”, I would always ask.

My name has always been a big part of who I am. The notion that it is not my name but my father's name has led me to feel differently about it through the course of my life. At first, I took it as if it was part of a dynasty: Diómedes Fernández II. The second on a long list of great men who bore the same name. I swore to myself that I would name my first male son just like me and my father before me. For this to become a tradition he would have to be Diómedes Fernández III.

As years passed I swore that I would never use that name for son. I was as passionate with not using the name as I was before with using it. As I grew older and I started learning about the concept of personality, what makes us the way we are - or at least what pushes us in certain directions - I discovered that kids that have the same name as their fathers tend to always live under the shadow of the first. As if somehow it became harder for them to be themselves because they didn't even had their own names.

As if their whole life was to fight to try to differentiate themselves from their father figure.

It wasn’t even my name, it was my father's name. Nobody used to call me by that name because my father had died and nobody wanted to mention the name of the dead. For the first 12 years of my life I had a nickname, and many nicknames since. I didn't want to be trapped by a name.

Right now and after a lot of considerations, I think I only want to have girls.

5

Time machine

I remember the first time I did it. I had heard so much about, it seemed as if everybody else was doing it except me. They told me it would hurt a little the first time, but that's the more you used I got to using it, the less he would hurt.

Thanks for the link was invented right after World War II after Hiroshima the Russians launched massive nuclear attacks on the US and everything was almost lost.

Soon after the T.M.P. (time machine project) was launched and it was decided that every time mankind was close to annihilating the species, we would go back and fix things. It happened 21 times during the period now called the cold war.

It came into mass production neared the year 2000‌

Prompt: write a story about a time machine.

6

Old man’s room

The old man next to me and I had been talking for some time now. It feels as if I've known him all my life.

Actually, it feels as if he knows all my life and I know his.

Even though he's older, I have been here longer than him, so to me, every word he has uttered has been like a new window put on the wall that allows me to see into a whole new world.

Sometimes I have a hard time keeping his memories from getting tangled with my own. Sometimes I forget that some of the things he has told me happened to him and not to me.

His old room for example, I could almost describe every single article in it‌

Prompt: Write about a picture.

7

Song of the towers

Men have always wondered how other men live on top of the mountains.

They have purchased stories of peace and celebrations of food to strange to pronounce and tastes too different to be recognized.

Only artist were allowed to cross between the two worlds‌

Prompt: Write about a picture.

8

1997: Perfect

It was the year it all came together. The calm moment right before the storm, and everything felt like it was in its place.

I year were everything was perfect.

I drove my Harley type bike to work every morning and my first students became seniors that year. I had taught everyone in that high school at some point, so in a sense it was like the whole school was mine, they were all my children.

I had bought my dream car. The only one I ever wanted to have. A 1966 Ford Mustang, red with a white vinyl top.

Around 6 PM I would take the Mustang and go to pick up my girlfriend at the University: Rose. A girl as beautiful as her name; smart, charming. Her family treated me like a son‌

9

El Gajo

This is me. On top of the world. My world at least. This is me doing what I love surrounded by the people I love. I am so glad we all could make it here.

My mother's father and his father before have been coming here for ages. Before this was a public park this used to be their land.

I look at all these trees around us and wonder which ones were planted by them, which ones were planted by my mother and uncle. I can see and hear them sliding down the hill on top of a “Yagüa”.

(Dominican version of a slade)

We are not only ourselves, but also the people that came before us…

Prompt: write about a happy place where you would take your students.

10

One crazy summer

I was living in Madrid but things just hadn't turned out the way I expected this time around. It was 2003 and Spain's entrance into the European Union and that use of the new currency “Euro” had taken its toll on the economy and there were fewer and fewer jobs available.

I was living in “La Latina”. The center of the artistic community, and my roommate, an actor named Ivan, - whose girlfriend had just broken up with a few nights before - had just gotten home with the news that he had just been fired from his job.

When he told me that used I hesitated for a second remembering the old saying “don't kick a man when he's down”, but figured that since he was already down there, what the heck.

I said to him: “Hold that thought, let me tell you how my day has been.” I took a deep breath, and without knowing how to begin, just blurt down the end of what I had planned. “I have decided that I am going back to Dominican Republic”.

He looked at me with disbelief, thought about it for a second and then said: “Then I guess I'm coming with you. There's nothing left for me here.”

That was the beginning of what later became known as “The infamous summer”. Two weeks after that conversation we were on a plane to New York City…

11

Writing Marathon

1st Stop. Outside Rounds Hall.

There is a certain kind of magic that fills my heart when I'm surrounded by mountains.

It is such a spectacle to view the way clouds show their shapes through the moving shadows that create two different shades of green. Moving patterns of darker green moving over lighter green.

Nature at its best!

Living in a city, everything feels like a box. You cannot just go as far as it wants, to where the horizon meets the sky. We have become so disconnected from nature.

I see small houses hidden inside the trees and wonder how it would be to leave their. What the view would be like when their owners wake up for coffee in the morning. Just imagine the sound heard in a home like that. It would be silence but probably pretty close to the voice of God.

2nd Stop. Plymouth Town Hall.

Brick by brick this building was built hundreds of years ago. I wonder about the hands that built it. About the man who designed it.

Who were these people? Did they love and were loved in return? Was this just a job that took them away from their homes in Boston? What where winters like packing those days when they did not have electricity to heat their homes?

The building just stands there. A perfect and silent witness of everything that has happened since, of war times and peace times.

A strong community that built this and can always come here for shelter if there ever was a need Plymouth then in Plymouth now.

I think of a time before the white man ever set foot in this place. Before this building was even here...

And still further when men wasn't even men‌ And still further when all this was just water‌ And still further‌

3rd Stop. Museum of the White Mountains. Women in the White Mountains Exhibition.

Women are the real unsung heroes of the story of humanity. It's just so unfair the way they have been treated all through history.

I will not share the guilt of however men and women in the past treated one another, but it makes me feel so angry to see that we are still going through the same problems till this day.

When will humanity finally realize its potential? When will we be the race we were meant to be? All that we can and desperately need to become?

I have been raised by women and lived in a house full of women practically my whole life, so I have a real hard time relating to alpha-male macho bull-crap.

I do think I have ever felt as comfortable in a group of men as in a group of women. That is precisely why I like this exhibit, a celebration of my favorite aspect of creation: Women.

12

Caveman

Once a time there was a caveman who was really happy with how things were going for him. He hunted, gathered and had himself a beautiful family.

One day he realized that out of his many blessings what he loved the most about his life was... Beans.

Beans were so wonderful and tasty. You could have them in soup, in his burritos or his favorite, on top of white rice.

He was so obsessed with beans that he asked the gods to turn them into a constellation so he could remember them every night where ever he went.

That is why today if you look up in the sky with a telescope, to the left of the Big Dipper, you can find a beautiful pattern resembling beans created just for our caveman.

Prompt: Write about the three images that come out throwing the special dice: 1. Caveman. 2. Beans. 3.

Telescope.

13

Not this weekend

This weekend I did not get out of the house for any other purpose than to take out the trash.

I did not kiss my wife were hug my daughter.

This weekend I did not drink alcohol or coffee, smoked or used any substance that I altered my state of consciousness.

I did not become president of a nation, want any awards nor fought for the revolution.

This weekend I did not let myself fall into the abyss of depression.

I did not look at the world as a hopeless gloomy place.

This weekend I did not forget who I was or my love for writing

Prompt: write about what you didn’t do this weekend.

14

To drive not to drive

Driving in the Dominican Republic can be a very stressful experience. I don't know why but driving there has a very unique "Jekyll and Hyde" effect on me. I would definitely like to go deeper into this matter, and even though I am a little afraid of what I could find out, I am grateful for the opportunity and feel that it's time to stop running from it.

As I spoke to my partner from this exercise I could realize that there are two possible reasons why I get so mad when I drive in that country: 1. The bullying effect and 2. The decay is eyewitness reminds me of how far away my cold is of creating a country where things work the right way.

But before we go into these reasons, I will try to describe how I feel when I drive in D.R. and how it changes my personality traits.

When I am at school working, I usually have a smile on my face, so much that when I don't people usually ask me “what’s wrong?� I am patient, soft spoken and generally transmit a sense of peace to everyone I encounter. But not when I'm driving.

When I drive I become a totally different person. I get anxious and impatient. I scream at people and used foul language a lot. It gets to a point where I wish I could use my car to hit other drivers with it. I often dream of just buying a beat up car and just drive around without the worry that someone will hit me and just keep on driving when I get to a green light, knowing that some idiot is going to run his red light in the same intersection (notice that even while writing this in one of the most peaceful places on earth that I have been, I could not refrain from using the word idiot).

So, my first feces for why this happens has to do with bullying. I have always had a problem with bulleys.

I am a pacifist at heart but when I see someone taking advantage of the little man, it is really hard for me not to go right then and there and do something about it. It is like the conscious part of my brain just shuts off and I want to get up and just physically hurt this person. I want to become the embodiment of the phrase “well, how do YOU like it?�

I cannot recall ever being bullied as a child. Except for a time in fifth grade when a sixth-grader used to come and just give me a hard time about anything, an experience that I quickly got out of my system when I was in sixth grade by doing the same. Although the feeling afterwards was so horrible that I spent the next few years apologizing to the kids I did this to, to the point where he got fed up with my apologies. So, I don't think I feel this way because of a sense of revenge‌

Prompt: Write about an experience regarding patience or lack of it.

15 One

It was amazing just to see them there, together after 40 years of marriage. A writer/psychotherapist and a teacher (who did not introduced himself as a writer but her read a passage from his book).

They were not two distinct individuals, they had morphed with the passing of time into one being, sharing one, in memory, one history; they were one.

I had to go to them and tell them how inspired I was not just for their words but further presence, their shared stories, further imperceptible looks to one another that lasted seconds but spoke volumes, for showing me that it is possible‌ To be ONE.

16 Card Game

He was blessed enough to live in a valley surrounded by mountains safe.

He was happy but alone longing the company of someone who understood what felt for the world.

He finally decided to come down from the mountains and see if he could ever find his match in the city.

He became in this new life just another gear of the machine just another wheel turning endlessly.

So today he stands with a pill in his hand wondering where to go maybe back up to the sky

or just journey down below.

Prompt: Write a poem using the words you get in five cards from the deck. 1. Valley. 2. Longing. 3.

Match. 4. Machine. 5. Pill.

17 Constitution

“If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it…”

If something exists but no one's names its, does it exist? Words make things available to us. As soon as we become aware of something we create/find a word to name it, to ourselves or to others.

The only way ideals become reality is through the written word. The only way to achieve the world that we want is to write about it.

Is the U.S. Constitution just words on a piece of paper? NO! The goal at the top of the mountain we should climb? Maybe… A light for humanity in moments of darkness? Definitely!

Maybe we should write a constitution without a revolution. Words in black and not in red, that lead us into new territory, greener pasture and bluer skies…

Prompt: pick two words from the list and write about them: 1. Word. 2. Legal.

18 Magestic

Cousin Miriam is such a sweet girl she always helps everyone and she deserves all the love the world can give love in red, blue, yellow, orange and green.

Once she was struggling for money so she took in an orphan baby who was very sick she cared for him with so much love he got better loved him as if he was her own child so in the end she decided to adopt him.

She named the baby Majestic for the amazing things he would accomplish in life but there's a law that should be proved by science and that is that love is so extrapositivistic that her life just blossomed after that and she was filled with blessings.

She's now the happiest person on earth and when I ask her why does everything go so well she just smiles to me and say: Carpe Diem.

Prompt: Write a poem using the following six concepts: 1. The word Majestic. 2. One scientific law. 3. The first and last word of the poem must rhyme. 4. Make up at least one word. 5. Use one word that is not in English or your native language. 6. Use three colors. (This rules were created on the spot before the exercise by all participants. In

19 Persuasive paragraph

To Luis.

I have heard you speak about a revolution and I have some ideas I want to share: I think it discussed work that so many teachers from Hato Mayor are here and that I am married to that town. But it is a very poor community and I don't see how they can earn a decent salary. What do we need? We need English speakers so that we can open a call center in Hato Mayor. A salary in a call center is around 18 to 25 thousand pesos a month and the only requirement is the knowledge of the English language. That is where you come in, my friend. You have the power and the means to make this a reality. Think about it, together we could end poverty in your hometown.

Prompt: Write a persuasive paragraph to one of your classmates keeping in mind audience, objective, evidence, purpose, style.

20

Dear Class of 2029

I remember a summer way back in 2016 when I started researching how I was going to teach you how to read and especially write. Handwriting was a big thing back then and the debate, believe it or not, was if cursive handwriting was better than friends, or even typing!! I could find only one article during my research that mentioned speech recognition (pause for laughter) and it wasn't even something scientific, it was just a fleeting mention of an offer who said he uses it.

And look how far we have come. Not only as individuals but as a human race. As Derek was still learning how to button his shirt, we end poverty. While ever learned how to ride a bike without training wheels, we finally get rid of hunger once and for all. As Felipe was developing a shadow of a mustache, we found equilibrium for all habitats on Earth and now it is all in perfect balance and harmony.

For those of you studying abroad, in the moons of Jupiter or other places after the outer rim, good luck.

For those staying on Earth never forget our school motto: SEMPER DUX. “Always remain a leader�.

Prompt: Write a letter to the next generation.

National Writing Project

In New Hampshire Personal Narrative: My Door

By

Diรณmedes Fernรกndez Diรณmedes Fernรกndez

Personal Narrative Final Draft I was 12 years old when I walked alone thru the streets of a city for the first time. It was the mid 1980’s and the fact that so many years have passed make it seem as if it was some kind of golden era. I felt exactly the same about the 60’s back in the 80’s. On this particular day I had a very specific task: To find out where my new home was going to be. To find the door that would lead to a new life.

We had been living back on the Island for about 3 years now and Mother had decided to rent a place near my grandfather’s house. We had moved to Miami in ’81 and then tried again in ’84 but Mother just didn’t seem to want to stay put in one place. The first time in my life that we moved from one country to another I was one month old. And the trend just continued. Now she was determined to grow some roots and decided to buy an apartment near the university where she taught and the school I went to.

I was totally excited because this meant that I would walk to school instead of the half an hour drive back and forth that had become our daily routine. Mother had even promised to give me a key to the new house so that I could come and go to school in the mornings and whenever I had afternoon activities. For her, it was taking a big load of her shoulders with the constant picking up and dropping off, for me it meant only one thing: I was finally going to become my own man. Master of my time and fate.

I was dying to see this new apartment that she had already made a down payment on and had committed to keep on paying for the next 25 years. It became something of an obsession in my head, and the fact that the moving date kept being pushed away do to some small details Mother wanted fixed only made me more anxious. One day, I decided that I couldn’t take it anymore and that I was going to do something about it. I had to see with my own eyes this mythical place where I would spend the next decades of my life. It was just enough to see the building, its surroundings, the front door of the place.

Soon enough the door became the symbol of the life I was going to live from then on. I pictured this door in my head in a million different ways. I started asking during lunch conversations questions about the new apartment without sounding too desperate, and began to create a map in my head of the exact location of the building. The idea of going there on my own started to grow. It was a little scary at first because I don’t think I had ever done anything alone up to that point in my life. I was always surrounded by family - especially cousins – or friends from the neighborhood and friends from school.

It sounds like a simple task to go find a door, but I assure you it wasn’t. I figured my best chance was one of the days when Mother dropped me off at the English Institute where I studied the language. Mother was determined that I didn’t lose the ability to speak it while we were living on the Island. She would leave and return in an hour to pick me up and it was fairly close to the new place. If I did this, I was going to have to move fast.

I planned the escape for some time and knew exactly what I needed to do. The biggest problem was going to be “Matute”. He was the guard who made sure everyone got to their classes on time and that there were no kids just meandering about. Someone had given him this nickname from the Spanish name of Officer Dibble in the Top Cat cartoons and it had stuck. He had being doing this for many years and knew instinctively when something was not in its place. I believe that he is still working there to this day. They should build a statue of the man in front of the Institute when he finally retires for services rendered, like they do to old war generals.

I had been studying Matute during bathroom breaks I had been deliberately taking at different moments of the class during the past weeks. I would ask the teacher to let me go to the bathroom at 3:05 on one

day, at 3:10 on another day, until I had the full hour covered and began to discover patterns in Matute’s routes.

Exactly 15 min. after the bell rang to go into class, Matute would slowly walk towards the cafeteria with an air resembling the warden of Alcatraz, stop for a minute to get his coffee and continued his rounds.

This worked with the precision of a German train, except on Tuesdays and Thursdays. There was this new girl working in the cafeteria on these days, her name was Jenny, and apparently our faithful watchdog had a liking for this particular employee. He would, only on these two days, take his sweet time drinking his coffee as he enjoyed how Jenny giggled at his small talk. It was the only time where he seemed to be more man than machine. It was just a grin, but it led me to believe that the man had a heart. Finally the day of my escapade had arrived, I had picked a Thursday.

I walked inside the building with the rest of the kids but slowed down my pace as I got near the classroom. It was a long corridor with doors to my left and right. My classroom was at the end. So little by little all doors started to close and soon enough there I was, like an infant about to be born, standing at the end of a long dark tunnel with a bright light at the other end and an incontrollable urge to move towards it. The moment had come. I was sure I would never be the same after this.

So I took the first step towards the lights, not rushing, taking my time. I had to look as if I knew what I was doing, as if I had the right to be there. It was not the first time I did something wrong but with each step I felt that the child was left behind and that the man was slowly beginning to be. I finally got to the end of the hallway and the brightness blinded me for a moment. To my right were the administrative offices, straight ahead was the cafeteria and to my left, the gates that led to my new life.

I could see Matute leaning towards the girl with an elbow on the counter and thought how love had been the demise of great men like Mark Anthony and Samson. He turned his back for a second and I turned to my right. I walked with the grace of a feline towards the door of the administrative offices, opened it, then quickly turned around, and walked away as if I was coming out. I had brought with me a decoy to help me look more authentic. It was a folder with the institute’s logo on it. When Matute finally turned around it looked as if I had just finished conducting some official business and had just left the office. I had no books in my hands for I had stashed them in the parking lot when Mother dropped me off, so everything looked in order. Matute turned to Jenny, took one last sip of his coffee, and as if he was a knight from some medieval tale, took her right hand, brought it towards his face, kissed it, and went back to his duties. The plan had worked, he did not look at me twice. I walked slowly but with determination towards my freedom.

And so I found myself there. Alone for the first time in the middle of a city waiting to be discovered. A feeling I would later become addicted to. I walked free for the first time without adult supervision and stopped being a child. My goal was simple, a couple of street from there was my new home and I just wanted stand in front of that door where my story would begin to unfold. I had to turn this idea in my head into something tangible and real. I had to find this door and be back in under 40 min. I started walking. The summer heat impregnated everything my eyes touched. Behind I left the jailer and his inmates. The city was mine.

This capital city of an Island in the Caribbean finds itself “in the same trajectory of the sun� as its national poet declares it. Colors and life were everywhere. As I walked I noticed how palm trees slowly moved do to the wind and felt protected by the shadows of the mango trees, with their beautiful yellow and red fruits. In the corner, there was a man selling coconut water. He had a tricycle filled with coconuts and some people stood next to him asking him for a plastic cup with ice filled with the thirst quenching

liquid. He would take out his machete and with the elegance of a samurai chopped the top of the coconut making just the whole from where the water would pour. There were potholes in the street and trash in the sidewalk. There were flowers everywhere. I crossed the first street.

I could hear parrots flying above my head, looked up and saw the colorful feathers landing on the electrical cables. I could hear a group of women singing far away something resembling church music and I could hear the breeze that touched my face. There were cars driving by, blasting their merengue and their horns. Dogs that occasionally barked as they felt the steps of people approaching the homes they protected. When I got to the second corner I turned right without realizing I was supposed to turn left and kept walking. I felt the sun in my skin and knew that I was alive.

This scenario was familiar to me, but for the first time I was not looking at it from inside a car. I had always seen everything framed by a window, as if everything was happening inside a television set. But not this time, this time I was there, amongst the people and the sounds, a part of a story that was unfolding right before my eyes. It seemed as if all this was a movie and I was finally on the right side of the screen. My story had begun. It was as if I had waited my whole life for somebody to yell “action� and the camera had finally began to roll. All I could see were stories happening all around me.

Movies are the preferred way of storytelling of my generation, but each civilization had its own particular way to do it. Stories told around the campfire were later carried away from town to town by troubadours. Written stories later became theater plays. Silent films later became talkies.

I kept thinking about movies as I walked forward. I thought about how similar they were to life. My eyes were like a camera recording in my brain everything that I saw. I could just focus on any detail I wanted.

Garbage or flowers. All my senses coming together to bring me this experience. Mother was the

director/producer who paid for everything and said what should be done and how. I was the main character and soon could start being the scriptwriter. This was what excited me the most. I could make of my life whatever genre I wanted. Drama or comedy. Thriller or adventure. I felt like I could just choose a mask and become any type of man I wanted.

I must have been looking down when I got to the end of the block. I heard the sound of cars and realized it was a bigger street with more traffic. I looked up and at the end of the next block I saw something mesmerizing. I walked over and crossed the last street called “Malecón”. It was the far edge of the city.

There it was. As big as anything I had ever seen. The ocean. I hadn’t realized it was so close by. It was endless. Dark blue water as far as the eyes could see. There was no beach, just a cliff and waves crashing 20 feet down below.

The waves moved in apparent chaos but after a little while one could almost feel some order was being followed. Like a symphony with many instruments, nothing moved without being connected to everything else. Water, wind, light, earth. A splash of salty water sprayed my face and I tasted it. I have never understood why we call this planet earth and not planet water, after all, it’s what makes us unique in our galactic neighborhood. Even our bodies are mostly water. Humans just developed a layer suit that allowed us to live outside of water, carrying it around with us. I belonged in there. I felt like a fish out of water and was dying to belong.

I looked at my watch and wanted to leave but my feet were stuck. I was hypnotized. I looked at the pale blue sky with its scattered white clouds. I saw the white crescent moon smiling at me. Everything was moving at its own pace and I was like in a state of trance. I saw beyond the moon and thought about the dark space with the rest of the planets and galaxies and felt like a tiny cell of an intergalactic organism.

As if everything that exists just danced to the same song that started with the big bang. We are all just stardust. I didn’t feel so small anymore. I was as big as the universe because I was part of it.

Another splash of water and I snapped out of it. I crossed the Malecón again and went back retracing my steps until I found where I had made the wrong turn. I was running out of time. I walked two more blocks, made a right and then a left. It was a short street comprised of just one block and it was named after a priest from colonial times who had fought bravely, only with his words, and had achieved the impossible, that the Spanish crown acknowledge that the natives had souls. I saw some kids playing basketball in a hoop they had improvised with an old rim of a bicycle wheel hooked on a lamp post. I wondered if they would become my friends for life, but decided that since my school was so close by, I should just focus on creating my new character over there. I passed them and found the building I was looking for. “Edificio San Rafael” the big white wall said in shiny bronze letters. Our apartment was number 3A. Third and last floor.

I walked up the stairs not too slowly but not fast either. Looking at every detail for the first time. How far apart was each step in the staircase. Noticing the walls and the small plants some of the neighbor had in the second floor. And then, there it was. My door.

I wished I had stolen the key from Mother to go in and check out my new room, but that was an experience for another day. I just stood there. Looking at the door. It felt like the door was also looking at me. The end of the rainbow for this particular adventure. My pot of gold. Just standing there I did not feel so lost anymore. I had a setting. This was the new home to the new me. I would grow up here and become the man I was always meant to be. Even though I had no idea at the time of who that man was or what he would be like. At least I knew something about him. I knew where he would live and I knew that everything would start the minute I walked thru that door.

Diómedes Fernández Personal Narrative Author’s Notes The idea for this personal narrative has been roaming in my head for several years now. It is supposed to be the first chapter to an autobiographical novel that I have always said I would write but never quite got around to it. Poetry is my comfort zone so maybe that is why I keep putting it off. Maybe fear of trying out a new voice.

Anyway, I have sketches of what I want to say in each chapter of this novel so the ideas of what I wanted to say were already written down and I knew what passage I wanted to tell first. The idea of beginning precisely at 12 years old just like the stories of many heroes seemed like a logical place to start. I guess at some point I wrote the first page or two of this narrative in Spanish some years ago but didn't quite like the way it came out. Spanish is too flamboyant and I wanted my target readers to be teenagers so it didn't really work for me.

Sharing my first draft was a completely new experience for me. I had always dreaded what would happen if I had to sit down in front of an editor and have him bash mercilessly my work. I don't know why I always felt that sharing was going to be a horrible experience. That could not be further from the truth. The advice given by my fellow classmates was really helpful. It helped me see multiple places where the story was not going in the direction I wanted it to go. I could also see what things were not clear in the paper that were very clear in my head. Having them ask questions about what was not so clear to them really helped me open up the piece, and I think the difference shows clearly from the first draft to the second.

I am really happy with the end result, one thing that I am happy about and that my classmates pointed out where the details I gave about Dominican Republic. I also liked how sensory details worked well with the audience. Even though the original sketch for this chapter included a lot more information I am content with the trims I made and how it all turned out in the end.

If there are two things that I am grateful about this experience, they are: First, learning the value of having your peers comment on your work and helping you take the piece where you want to take it, that feedback I believe to be invaluable and would like to integrate to all the narrative I write from now on.

And second, being able to see the reaction of the piece live helped me understand what parts were working, what made them laugh, and in what part I lost them.

But I guess the most important thing about it has been losing my fear of writing narrative. Getting out of my comfort zone and seeing that I am still alive, that I have all my limbs intact and that everything is fine.

Diรณmedes Fernรกndez

Personal Narrative First Draft I was 12 years old when I walked alone thru the streets of a city for the first time. It was the mid 1980’s and the fact that so many years have passed make it seem as if it was some kind of golden era. I felt exactly the same about the 60’s back in the 80’s. On this particular day I had a very specific task: to find out where my new home was going to be. To find the door that would lead to a new life.

It sounds like a simple task but it I assure you it wasn’t. I was dropped off by Mother at the English Institute where I studied the language. Mother was determined that I didn’t lose the ability to speak it while we were living on the Island. She would be back in an hour to pick me up so I had to hurry. There was no time to lose.

I had planned this escape for some time now and knew exactly what I needed to do. The main problem was going to be “Matute”. He was the guard who made sure everyone got to their classes on time and that there were no kids just meandering about. Someone had given him this nickname from the Spanish name of Officer Dibble in the Top Cat cartoons and it had stuck. He had being doing this for many years and knew instinctively when something was not in its place. I believe that he is still working there to this day. They should build a statue of this poor man in front of the Institute when he passes away for services rendered like they do to generals.

I had been studying Matute during bathroom breaks I had been deliberately taking at different moments of the class during the past few weeks. I would ask the teacher to let me go to the bathroom at 3:05 on one day, at 3:10 on another day, until I had the full hour covered and began to discover patterns in Matute’s routes.

Exactly 15 min. after the bell rang to go into class, Matute would slowly walk towards the cafeteria with an air of the warden of Alcatraz, stop for a minute to get his coffee and continued his rounds. Except for Tuesdays and Thursdays. There was this new girl working in the cafeteria on these days, her name was Jenny, and apparently our faithful watchdog had a liking for this particular employee. He would, only on these two days, take his sweet time drinking his coffee as he enjoyed how Jenny giggled at his small jokes. It was the only time where he seemed to be more man than machine. It was just a grin, but it led me to believe that the man had a heart. Today was Thursday.

I walked inside the building with the rest of the kids but slowed down my pace as I got near the classroom. It was a long corridor with doors to my left and right. My classroom was at the end. So little by little all doors started to close and soon there I was, like a baby about to be born, standing at the end of a long dark tunnel with a blinding bright light at the other end. The moment had come. I was sure I would never be the same after this.

So I took the first step towards the lights, not rushing, taking my time. I had to look as if I knew what was going, as if I had the right to be there. It was not the first time I did something wrong but with each step I felt that the child was left behind and that the man was slowly beginning to be. I finally got to the end of the hallway and the brightness blinded me for a moment. To my right were the administrative offices, straight ahead was the cafeteria and to my left, the gates that led to my new life.

I could see Matute leaning towards the girl with an elbow on the counter and thought how love had been the demise of great men like Samson and Mark Anthony. He turned his back for a second and I turned to my right. I walked with the grace of a feline towards the door of the administrative offices, opened it, then turned around, and walked away as if I was coming out of them. I had brought with me a prompt to help me look more authentic. It was a folder with the institute’s logo on it. When Matute

finally turned around it looked as if I had just finished conducting some official business and was about to leave. I had no books in my hands for I had stashed them in the parking lot when mother dropped me off, so everything looked in order. Matute turned to Jenny, took one last sip of his coffee, and as if he was a knight in some medieval tale, took her right hand, brought it towards his face, kissed it, and went back to his dutties. The plan had worked, he did not look at me twice. I walked slowly but with determination towards my new life.

And so I found myself there. Alone for the first time in the middle of a city waiting to be discovered. A feeling I would later become addicted to. I walked free for the first time without adult supervision and stopped being a child. My goal was simple. Somewhere near here there was a building where my family and I would move into in the weeks to come. My new home. Where my story would begin to unfold. I had to find this door and the back in under 40 min. I started walking. The summer heat impregnated everything my eyes touched. Behind I left the jailer and his inmates. The city was mine.

This capital city of an Island in the Caribbean finds itself in “the same trajectory of the sun� as its national poet declares it. Colors and life were everywhere. As I walked I looked at the palm trees and felt protected by the shadows of the mango trees, with their beautiful yellow and red fruits. In the corner, there was a man selling coconut water. He had a tricycle filled with coconuts and some people stood next to him and ask him for a plastic cup filled with the liquid. He would take out his machete and with the grace of a samurai chopped the top of the coconut leaving just the whole from where the water would pour. There were potholes in the street and trash in the sidewalk. There were flowers everywhere.

I crossed the first street.

I could hear parrots flying above my head, looked up and saw them landing on the electricity cables. I could hear a group of women singing far away something resembling church music and I could hear the breeze that touched my face. There were cars driving by, blasting their merengue and their horns. Dogs that occasionally barked as they felt the steps of people approaching the homes they protected. When I got to the second corner I turned right without realizing I was supposed to turn left and kept walking. I felt the sun in my skin and knew that I was alive.

This scenario was familiar to me, but for the first time I was not looking at it from inside a car. I had always seen everything framed by a window, as if everything was happening inside a television set. But not this time, this time I was there, amongst the peoples and the sounds, a part of a story that was unfolding right before my eyes. It seemed as if all this was a movie and I was finally on the right side of the screen. My story had begun. It was as if I had waited my whole life for somebody to yell “action� and the camera had finally began to roll.

National Writing Project In New Hampshire Open Paper: “Ego vox clamantis in deserto”

By

Diómedes Fernández

Diómedes Fernández Open Paper Final Draft Ego Vox Clamantis in Deserto One of the most important moments in the history of humanity happened close to 500 years ago, in 1492, when a man by the name of Christopher Columbus sailed 3 ships across the Atlantic settling in an island in the Caribbean that he called “La Hispaniola”. His journey from the last port in the “Old World” a group of Spanish islands located at roughly 62 miles of the African coast - to the “New world” lasted about 5 weeks. By 1943 he had returned to Spain and prepared a second voyage, this time with 17 ships and approximately 1,200 men. Christopher’s rule as Viceroy of the West Indies had been so terribly ruthless that Spanish King Ferdinand II had ordered, by the year 1500, that he should be imprisoned and brought back to Spain in chains. He was released shortly but never allowed to function as governor again.

For this reason, a system was put in place to regulate the relations between Natives and Spaniards, called “Encomienda”. Each Spaniard was “entrusted” a group of natives who had to work for them, working sunrise to sundown, in exchange for protection against rival tribes, pirates and the privilege of learning the word of our Lord Jesus Christ. In reality, no one wanted to introduce Natives to Christianism because that would mean they would have to stop treating then like slaves.

In 1510, the first group of priests from the Order of Preachers – also known as Dominicans for their founder Saint Dominic de Guzman - arrived at Hispaniola led by Friar Pedro de Cordoba. The small group of men wanted to lead lives according to the original philosophy of the order - prayer and penance - so they took pride in a life of few comforts. As soon as they arrived they were accommodated in a house made of hay and slept in cots made of branches of trees placed over forked legs and covered with straw.

They began promptly the building of their convent and church which 28 years later became the first University of the Americas.

Upon their arrival, the priests studied the city and the people who inhabited it without noticing at first the clear injustice with which the Natives were treated. The small city had grown rapidly in the few years since its foundation. The Tower of Homage was a marvelous achievement in such a short time, a stone medieval castle with tunnels and dungeons, and an immense tower overseeing the Ozama River and the ocean. The Casa del Cordón, a two story house made of stone where the Royal Court held its meetings and where the current Viceroy Diego Columbus – Christopher’s son – and his wife María de Toledo – King Ferdinand’s niece – lived. A town square called Plaza Mayor where parishioners could stroll every Sunday showing their best garments, and the recently finished Calle Las Damas - a cobblestone passage connecting the fortress and Casa del Cordón - where ladies of high birth could walk without getting the bottom of their precious dresses full of mud; began to give the city an European air. It had become a vibrant town full of houses, commerce and stables all around.

One particular morning, a man by the name of Juan Garcés came knocking looking for the help of the friars. He had been living in the woods and running from justice for the better part of 3 years. Having heard of the arrival of Dominican priests to the island and knowing well their reputation of fair men of god, he wanted to become a lay brother and spend the rest of his life in prayer and contemplation in atonement for his sins. This man was one of the first settlers and had participated in all sorts of massacres and cruel doings against the native population, but what kept him up at night and on the run, was the murder of his own wife, whom he had stabbed to death for rumors of infidelity. He begged and pleaded until the friars saw in him the signs of real remorse and repentance and agreed to accept him.

Juan was the first person who opened the clergymen’s eyes to what was going on in the other parts of the island - outside the city walls - where the priests had not yet ventured to visit. One afternoon, they sat down for a water break after working for hours on the construction of their new convent under the blazing Caribbean sun and talked about the issue that preoccupied the priests, since they have noticed no settler was really taking seriously their duties of teaching the word of Christ to the natives entrusted to them.

“They are treated worse than animals.” Juan said. “I will have nightmares for the rest of my life for the things I saw and did. I just hope the good Lord may ever forgive me”.

“The Lord’s mercy is infinite Juan. That is the only reason why any of us can be saved.” Replied Friar Pedro.

“But you have no idea what is going on in the fields and mines. These poor people are worked to death. They get sick and no one cares for their health. They are given no time to rest, they work until they drop dead from exhaustion.” Juan continued.

“He speaks nothing but the truth, father”. Said a young man by the name of Bartolomé de las Casas, who had come with his father on Columbus’ second journey in 1502 - at the young age of 18 - and had experienced first-hand everything that had occurred since then. “Indians are treated cruelly and without mercy, without the slightest sign of compassion, they are worked until fatigue consumes them and then they are just left there to die. And all of this for the sake of only one thing: Getting rich at all costs. The only regret when one of them dies is to have one less hand to work the mine. But they are soon replaced. You cannot imagine how many have perished. If this situation continuous I calculate that in 30 years there won’t be one single Taino Indian left on this island.”

“For what I’ve seen of the natives – said friar Antón de Montesinos, one of the first four Dominican priests to land on the island – they are trusting people, humble and meek of heart. Why are they treated in such way? Aren’t they men? Didn’t they possess lands of which they were lords? How are we supposed to teach them the concepts of justice and mercy, the lessons from our Lord, under these circumstances? Have they wronged us in any way?

“Agreed!” Added Friar Luis Cancer almost overlapping with the voice of Antón, fearing that his brother, who rarely found himself lacking words, would continue the list of inquiries indefinitely. “But what can we do?” How do we awaken them from the deep slumber in which they so insensibly lay, how to move them beyond the thirst for gold that has taken over their heart?

“We must pray and fast” Replied Friar Pedro Cordoba with the authority conferred by his rank putting the conversation to an end. “Let’s continue our work”.

In the following weeks, the Order held many hours of council and prayed incessantly begging the Lord for clarity on the matter. They lit candles and offered vespers, matins and lauds. The answer seemed much clearer with each passing day. They would do what they did best: Preach. Preach publicly from the pulpit about this injustice and declare the state of sin these people lived in, leaving it clear where all this inhumanities and greed lead in the end, and what would be the reward received.

They all agreed that this was the course of action to be taken. Friar Pedro, being Vicar, led the talks among the other priest.

“The first sermon on the topic should be written down and signed by all members of the congregation so there is not mistake that this is not the opinion of the man saying it but that it comes from the agreement, consent and approval of us all.”

“But who amongst us will carry the burden of speaking for all?” asked Friar Luis, with an almost imperceptible streak of fear in his voice.

“Friar Antón de Montesinos”. Replied the Vicar using a tone that indicated he spoke invoking the vow of obedience.

The Choice was obvious. Friar Antón was the best of them in the art of rhetoric, after the Vicar himself of course. He was graceful when he preached, but he had an unforgiving tone when scolding about vices and was very effective creating an atmosphere of piety when reprimanding the congregation.

The Friar nodded in agreement, accepting the task.

To him was commended the delivery of the first sermon with such a novel topic for the Spaniards of this Island, and what he had to say revolved around a simple but powerful idea: That the killings of these Natives had to stop and that the eternal fires of hell awaited those who did not heed the call. Since it was the season of Advent, they agreed that the sermon should be delivered on the fourth Sunday, when

Saint John’s gospel speaks about Pharisees that send emissaries to John The Baptist, asking who he was, to which he replied: “Ego Vox Clamantis in Deserto” (I am the voice crying out in the desert).

And to make sure that the whole city of Santo Domingo was present for Sunday’s homily especially the most notorious citizens - and that none missed it, the friars invited the Second Admiral of the West Indies, Don Diego Columbus, his wife, as well as all court officials appointed by the king and men knowledgeable of laws and letters. All were called upon at their own homes and told that the following Sunday, at the main church, there would be a sermon delivered in which the Dominican priests would disclose a matter of special interest for all, and that attendance would be of great importance.

Everyone decided to go in good faith, first to comply with such a gesture of being invited so formally, and second, for the esteem the Order had won amongst them with their frugal and devoted way of life.

The 21st day of December in the year of our Lord 1511 finally arrived. Parishioners arrived early to secure a good seat. The room got suddenly quiet when Friar Antón de Montesinos walked in and stood behind the pulpit.

Having made his introduction and said some things regarding the season of Advent, he started weaving together two ideas. The desert in the gospel and the desert in the barren insensitive hearts of the Spaniards that lived in the island. His voice resonated bouncing off the high walls, giving it an almost mystical effect.

“I have come up here today and stand in front of you to let you know that I am the voice of Christ in the Desert of this island, so it would be very wise for you to pay attention to what I am about to say. But not just attention, you should hear what I am about to say with all your hearts and all your senses, because what you are about to hear is something new that you never have heard before. It will be the harshest, toughest, most terrifying and dangerous thoughts you have ever heard.”

He went on for quite some time using pungent and powerful words that made their flesh tremble and made them feel as if they were standing in judgment on the last of days. The message that this voice declared was very simple and clear:

“You are all in mortal sin, in which you live and perish for the cruelty and tyranny that you use against this innocent people. Tell me with what right and what justice you hold this Indians in such inhuman and horrible servitude? Under what authority have you made such detestable wars to the people that were living in this island in such humble and peaceful way, where so many souls you have consumed with death and havoc? Why do you keep them so oppressed and tired, without giving them food or curing them of their illnesses, Illnesses they only suffer from the excessive work you have them do, such hard work that they die on you; or better said, you kill them, just to dig the gold that makes you richer each day? And what diligence have you shown for them to be indoctrinated, to get to know their God and maker, to be baptized, to hear mass and keep holy days and Sundays?”

He paused for a second, as if he was about to lift a sword way up high to deliver one last fatal blow, then added with noticeable contempt: “Aren't they men? Don't they have rational souls? Aren't you obliged to love them as you love thy selves? Can't you understand this? Can't you feel this in your hearts? How is it that you sleep in such deep lethargic slumber? Hold as an inalienable truth that in the state you are living in, you will never receive salvation.”

Finally he descended from the podium with his head up high, for he was not a man who was easily intimidated, believing he had truly spoken in the name of the Lord. No one dared to utter a sound but all looked around in disbelief of what had just happened.

The friar and the rest of his congregation left a few minutes before mass was over, heading straight to their house made of hay, where the only thing they had to eat, as it happened frequently, was cabbage soup. As soon as they left, the murmur that started almost immediately, began to grow louder and louder to the point where almost no one heard the final blessing of dismissal.

The midday meal was anything but dull in the homes of Santo Domingo that day. As soon as they had finished eating, little by little, citizens started to walk towards the home of the Admiral, Don Diego Columbus, son of the man who discovered these islands and second to hold this title. Starting with court

officials, the chamberlain and aristocrats, down to the regular people - some cursing themselves for not attending what was probably the most exciting thing that had happened in the island since 1492 - all just had to find out what was going to happen next.

A group comprised of some of the most important folks - led by the Admiral himself - decided that they would head over to the house of the friars and demand an explanation of this new doctrine, unheard of by any man, with which they have defied the expressed consent of the King, who had entrusted this Indians to them to use in the manner in which they saw fit. They were completely outraged and, as they marched towards the home of the men who they believed had wronged them, emotions got heated and passions ran high.

Finally, they arrived at the door. They knocked and the doorman appeared. The Admiral spoke first.

“May you please ask the Vicar and that Friar to receive us in this very instant, there are urgent matters we need to discuss.” He said with noticeable anger.

The man turned away and a few moments later, the venerable father, Pedro de Cordoba, showed up by himself. They ask him to call the man who had preached, with a tone far from humility.

“There is no need.” Replied the man of God with the patience that characterized him. “If your Grace is in need of anything, I am the person in charge of the Order, and will be happy to comply with any request you may have.”

A brief exchange began that lasted a couple of minutes in which the group tried to get Friar Antón to appear at the door and his superior presented excuses and evasions. After a while, and because of the many natural virtues that the divine providence had vested upon the priest and that he had cultivated himself, the tone of the conversation started to dim, as the Admiral and the rest understood that by mere imposition of authority the Vicar was not going to be persuaded. They began to soften and humbly asked to please call for the priest, because in his presence, they would like to discuss the basis on which such new and scandalous ideas were founded, in detriment of the King and the rest of the good people of the city and the whole island.

Friar Pedro, realizing that the conversation had taken another course, and that spirits were being tempered, called on Friar Antón de Montesinos, who appeared at the door probably without showing the distress he harbored in his heart.

They all sat down and the Admiral spoke first stating that he did so in the name of the rest.

“We would really like an explanation, theological or otherwise, of why such things were said in today's sermon. Things that could cause great damage to the King and to the whole land. Why would you say that we have no right to do as we please with this Indians, that the King, Lord of all these lands, gave to us after we won it for him with great pain and troubles, subjugating this infidel savages. Surely you must take it all back and mend this outrageous situation you have created.”

The Vicar replied. “What Friar Antón preached this morning was said under the consent, will and opinion of every member of this congregation after many nights of prayer and mature deliberations. We have determined that this must be preached as an evangelical truth for the salvation of all Spaniards and Natives of the island. We are obliged by the oath we took during our baptism and by the divine mandate that our profession demands, first as Christians and then as preachers of the gospel of our Lord.” He took a second to emphasize that there would be a slight change of topic when he continued, and said: “We do not believe there is anything that harms the interests of our King in what we said. He sent us here to preach using our better judgement and to serve the souls of his subjects and bring them closer to the Lord. I am sure that if King Ferdinand knew of the atrocities being committed here and of what was said today from the pulpit, he would not only rejoice, but thank us.

After a second, the visitors started to speak all at the same time. The words recently spoken seemed to have no effect on them and they kept arguing that the priests had no authority with which to claim that what they were doing was wrong in any way and not in accordance to the orders of the King. In the end they clearly stated that if the following Sunday the friar did not take the stage again to take back everything he had said, they better gather all the things and head back to Spain.

“That endeavor, my good gentlemen, - said Friar Pedro referring to the ill-intentioned comment about gathering all their possessions - would take us a very short time indeed”.

Seeing how the priests did not bulge to any threats, they began to soften their speech again, thinking that using the same strategy that had worked to get the preacher out could help them to reach some form of compromise. They begged that, for the sake of the towns people, the Order should revise their position and give a more moderate homily the following Sunday, trying to bring rest and calm to the community who was even more impressed than them about what had happened, again, for the sake of the people that should be eased into new concepts and ideas since they had no understanding of such complicated matters.

After a while, and with the intention of dismissing them as soon as possible from the premises and be done with their frivolous demands, the priests agreed that the following Sunday the same friar would take the pulpit again to speak on the matter in accordance with what the Order decided after consulting one last time on the best way to resolve this issue, trying to satisfy all parties. With this said, the men left happily and with hope that their intervention had been fruitful.

Some of the men present at that meeting had spread the word that on the next Sunday the same Friar would speak again and take back everything he had said. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to affirm that every single one of the inhabitants of the city was present and on time at the church for Sunday's service.

When the time of the homily arrived, Friar Antón got up again, took a deep breath, and after a second that seemed to last a lifetime started to read from the book of Job, chapter 36, which begins by saying: “Bear with me a little longer and I will show you that there is more to be said in God’s behalf…”

Upon hearing this lines, the keenest of them knew where this was headed. After finishing the reading from the Bible, the friar began speaking: “I will slowly and with great detail explain to you why everything I said last week, those words that brought some of you so much discomfort, are unequivocally the will of our Lord.”

And so he started to review his last sermon corroborating with even more reasons and authority what he affirmed to be injustice and tyrannical practices against these oppressed and tired people, reminding them that none would be saved under this state and that they should remedy the situation hastily, and that until then no one would receive confession.

Again the Friars left before the end of service, and again all retired to their homes to eat. After their meal it was agreed not to speak to the Friars again but to take matters into their own hands. They started planning for an emissary to leave as soon as possible for Spain - bringing letters to all their friends and aides in the court - with the specific intention of speaking directly with the King to inform him of the magnitude of the situation, both socially and economically.

With every resource at his disposal, the emissary left for Spain in a matter of days aboard the fastest ship - with all luxuries and accommodations available - taking with him all sorts of gifts with which to gain the favor of the people closest to the King. When he arrived he did not waste much time and began to deliver all messages, bearing all sorts of tokens from the “New World” that were in such demand in those days; and of course, gold.

Obviously, an audience with the King was promptly set up while back in the island the Dominican priests struggled to find a way of getting Friar Antón on a ship across the Atlantic. They asked for alms here and there, and because of their piety and the way they had always conducted themselves, even the poorest of the poor gave what they could until the fair for the trip was gathered and the priest could set sail on the darkest corner of the smallest ship.

The emissary had gained the favor of the king by the time Friar Antón de Montesinos arrived to Spain, having explained to the King how out of touch with reality the demands of the Order of Preachers were by twisting every possible fact, he had already been appointed member of the Council that oversaw all matters regarding the West Indies. Learning of the arrival of the friar, the emissary had the brilliant idea of bribing the guard that stood faithfully in front of the door where the King held hearings, so that the friar would never gain entrance.

Day after day Friar Antón went to see the King and day after day he got sent away. No matter how much he demanded, pleaded or begged the answer was always the same. The King was not available to him. He tried to talk to people close to the King but his name has been dragged through the mud and nobody wanted anything to do with him.

The friar had resigned to stand by the door every day in silence with the hope that God would let him know what should be his next move. The guard had already gotten accustomed to the silhouette of the man standing there. He became part of the décor. One day as the guard opened the door for a group larger than usual of regular acquaintances of the court, the priest finally saw his chance. He bolted through the door leaving the guard perplexed without knowing how to react, knowing that running after him would make his mistake evident to all and his life might be in danger.

As soon as the friar got in he said: “Your Highness, I beg just for a minute of your time, for the things I have to say to you are of great importance”.

The King, who apparently was in a good mood that day, replied: “Well speak, father. What is it you have come here to say that is so important?

The priest carried with him a roll of paper written by chapters stating the particular cruelties that had been perpetrated in times of war and peace to the natives of the island and other atrocities that occurred in the mines, as accounted for and signed by the lay brother who had witnessed them. He got down on his knees and began to read.

“These Indians lived peacefully on their land without offending any living soul. Being in their homes, Spaniards would go in and take their wives and daughters and sons, and do whatever they pleased with them. The men they took and worked with no regards for their lives, and when they were finally dead, no remorse was felt. Many other violent acts were perpetrated, to the point where the natives took to the hills to try and save themselves.”

“If any of them presented any threat or showed any sign of courage - regardless of their antiquated weaponry - they would be paraded naked and beaten in front of the others until shrieks never before heard by mankind were uttered. They would cut them in half, or make bets of whom could sever their heads off with one blow, got burned them alive in front of their families and other exquisite cruelties; as one that I was unfortunate enough to witness, when a group of Spaniards laughing out loud on the edge of a river, grabbed a small infant, not more than two or three years old, and threw him over their shoulders into the river. The child did not sink right away and kept his head above water for a second. To which the man that had thrown him replied: he can swim! Can you see, the child knows how to swim!”

The King could not believe what he was hearing and said: “This is unconceivable!”

The priest continued to speak to the King about other atrocities portrayed under his name. About the cruelties in the divisions of land and men, resulting in separation of entire families, the harsh conditions of labor, the lack of care of their souls and their health. He told him how pregnant women swallowed herbs and berries that made them deliver dead babies in order to spare them from the infernal labor and treatment. Spoke of how Natives were treated worse than animals, with no consideration for their souls. Then he added as his final argument: “This is surely not the will of Your Highness. A ruler so merciful and pious could never want this. This is not done by order and consent of the King, is it? I know in the depths of my heart that this could not be true as if my heart had spoken with your Highness’ heart directly. Tell me my Lord, have I done wrong? Have I spoken out of term or in consonant with your desires?”

The King looked sad and hurt, as if somehow he only wished he could have found out about this sooner to remedy the situation.

“Rise father - he said- you have done well in this matter. It should be addressed promptly and with the importance it deserves. I will have my Council of the Indies debate and draw a document, which under my consent and with my full support, will put an end to the horrors you speak of.”

This said, Friar Antón de Montesinos stood up, kissed the king's hand and left with the satisfaction of knowing he had been a faithful instrument of the Lord.

The document drawn consisted of seven main points, as told by that 18 year old young man, Bartolomé de Las Casas, who inspired by the example of the Dominican friars wrote about this and many other stories from that time, becoming a priest himself and fighting in the name of Native Americans his entire life all across the continent. Today he is considered one of the first advocates of human rights. This is what the document achieved for the indigenous population: 1. That Natives were free men and should be regarded as such.

2. That they should be instructed in the faith and this should be done with diligence.

3. That they should work, but that the work should in no way get in the way of their instruction in the faith and that it should be fruitful for them and the Republic.

4. That the work should be such that they could endure it and that they should have time for recreation, every day, all year round, at convenient times.

5. That they should have their own houses and land, and they should have time to work, keep and maintain such lands in their own accordance.

6. That communication should always be open between both communities so they would be more disposed to matters pertaining the Catholic faith.

7. That they should be paid a convenient wage for their labor, not with money, but with dresses and other things they may need for their homes and lands.

In the end, this ordeal that began with words written and spoken one particular Sunday on a small island in the Caribbean culminated with the talks that officially proclaimed that Natives were indeed human, that they possessed a soul, and that from that moment on, they should be treated accordingly.

Diómedes Fernández Open Paper Author’s Note

I had some trouble picking my topic for the open paper, maybe because it was so…well…Open! I tried a lot of ideas in my head, but I was sure it was going to be a narrative, so I started looking for stories out there that spoke to me. I totally loved the process of seeing stories everywhere. I almost went with a real event that one day my wife told me about regarding the mistress of a communications magnate that cheated on him with his pilot, putting her whole career on the line, and ended up with the pilot (and his father) thrown in jail on a 30 year sentence under some made up charges, only to beat the charges after 2 years in prison. Even though this sounded like a very exciting gangster type of story. I did not feel it was right.

Then, as I was re-reading my personal narrative it jumped right out of the page. I just love when those “eureka” moments happen. It was a single reference to the street that I grew up in: Padre Montesinos Street. To me this is such a powerful story and character that I based my pen name as a poet for a while and my anthology of poems after him (just changing monteSinos for monteZinos). It is such a powerful story because it means that something can happen in Santo Domingo, words could be written or uttered that start some ripple effect that ends up affecting the whole of humanity, or as dreamer say, changing the world.

The biggest challenge for me is still writing narrative. In my second attempt I wanted to try something different than a first person’s perspective and use the voice of an omnipresent narrator. I thought that this would be a lot more difficult, because writing from the first person helps me understand the psyche of the one telling the story, but in the end I found it to be less restraining than I thought and really enjoyed the process. The other aspect that was kind of hard was that this is a historical piece so I had to do plenty of research to get everything right. Years when buildings were built to see if I could include them in the story, names of secondary characters to include and also to know where to draw the line in regards to what facts to use in order to keep it lively and not just a history text full of dates.

It was interesting to work with a historical document of the account and trying to make it “today”, or at least to have the pace and feel of a modern story while balancing it with the terminology of the 1500’s.

The use of that vocabulary and the balance of having it be just enough and not go over board was something that also took a lot of thought during the process.

I guess because of the importance of the story both personally and for the country I had always wanted to retell it for a more modern audience. I am really happy with the way the end result turned out.

Diómedes Fernández Open Paper 1st Draft

Ego Vox Clamantis in Deserto One of the most important moments in history happened in 1492, when a man by the name of Christopher Columbus sailed 3 ships across the Atlantic settling in an island in the Caribbean that he Named “La Hispaniola”. His journey from the last port in the “Old World”, a group of islands that belonged to Spain at roughly 62 miles of the African coast, lasted about 5 weeks. By 1943 he had returned to Spain telling the tale of his findings and prepared a second voyage back to the “New World”, this time with 17 ships and approximately 1,200 men - including priests, farmers and soldiers - to create “colonies of settlement” from which to begin the glorious task of launching the missions that would convert natives to Christianity.

During the first 8 years, Christopher Columbus’ rule as Viceroy of the West Indies had been so terribly ruthless that Spanish King Ferdinand II had ordered in the year 1500 that Christopher and his two brothers - Bartolomé and Diego – were to be imprisoned and brought back to Spain in chains. After spending a month and a half in jail, they were freed and allowed to return to Hispaniola, but never again to function as governors. In his place, by 1502, the crown had appointed Fray Nicolas de Ovando as Royal governor of the Island. He began by arranging the construction of several projects as his first order of business.

By the second decade of the 1500’s, when this story takes place, the system that regulated the relations between Natives and Spaniards was called “Encomienda”. Nicolas was in charge of setting it up. Each Spaniard was in charge of a group of “Indians” who had to work for them, sunrise to sundown, in exchange for protection against rival tribes, pirates and the privilege of learning about the Lord Jesus Christ. In actuality, No one wanted to introduce Natives to Christianism because then they would have to stop treating then like slaves.

In 1510, the first group of priests from the Order of Preachers – also known as Dominicans for their founder Saint Dominic de Guzman - arrived at Hispaniola led by Friar Pedro de Cordoba. The small group of men wanted to lead lives according to the original philosophy of the order - prayer and penance - so they took pride in a life of few comforts. As soon as they arrived they were accommodated in a house made of hay and slept in beds the were merely cots made out of branches of trees placed over forked legs covered with dry straw as the mattress. They began promptly the building of the convent and church which they finished by 1532 and in 1538 became the first University of the Americas.

Upon their arrival, the priests studied the city and the people who inhabited it without noticing at first the clear injustice with which the Natives were treated. The small city had grown rapidly in the few years since its foundation. The Tower of Homage was a marvelous achievement in such a short time, a stone castle with tunnels and dungeons and an immense tower overseeing the Ozama River and the ocean.

There was the Casa del Cordón, a two story house made of stone where the Royal Court held its meetings and where the current Viceroy Diego Columbus – Christopher’s son – and his wife María de Toledo – King Ferdinand’s niece – lived while their Alcazar, a 55 room palace, was being built. Plaza Mayor was the place where parishioners strolled every Sunday showing their best garments. And the recently finished Calle Las Damas or Street of the Ladies, a cobblestone passage connecting the fortress and the Casa del Cordón where ladies could walk without getting the bottom of their precious dresses full of mud, began to give the city an European air. There were also houses, commerce and stables all around.

One day, a man by the name of Juan Garcés came knocking in the aid of the friars. He had been living in the woods running from justice for the better part of 3 years and hearing about the arrival of the Dominican priests, knowing their reputation of fair men of god, wanted to become a lay brother and

spend his life in prayer and contemplation in atonement for his sins. This man was one of the first settlers and after participating in all sorts of massacres and cruel doings against the native population, one day fearing that his wife was having an affair had stabbed her to death. He begged and pleaded until the friars saw in him the signs of real remorse and repentance and agreed to let him in.

Juan was the first person who opened the Order’s eyes to what was going on in the other parts of the island outside the city walls where the priests had not yet ventured to visit. One afternoon, they sat down for a water break after working for hours on the construction of the convent under the blazing Caribbean sun and talked about the issue that preoccupied the priests since they have noticed no settler was really taking seriously their duties of teaching the words of Christ to the natives entrusted to them.

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“They are treated worse than animals.” Juan said. “I will have nightmares for the rest of my life for the things I saw and did. I just hope the good Lord may ever forgive me”.

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“The Lord’s mercy is infinite Juan. That is the only reason why any of us can be saved.” Replied Friar Pedro.

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“You have no idea what is going on in the fields and the mines. These poor people are worked to death. They get ill and no one cares for their wounds. They are left no time to rest until they drop from exhaustion.” Juan continued.

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“He speaks nothing further from the truth, father”. Said a young man by the name of Bartolomé de las Casas. He had come with his father in Columbus’ second journey in 1502 at the age of 18 and had experienced first-hand everything that had occurred since then. “Indians are treated cruelly and without mercy, without the slightest sign of compassion, they are worked until fatigue consumes them and then they are just let there to die. And all of this for the sake of only

one thing: Getting rich at all costs. The only regret when one of them dies is to have one less hand to work the mine. But they are soon replaced. You cannot imagine how many have perished. If this situation continuous I calculate that in 30 years there will not be one Taino Indian left on this island.”

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“For what I’ve seen of the natives – said friar Antón de Montesinos, one of the first three Dominican priests to land on the island – they are innocent peoples, humble and meek of heart.

Why are they treated in such way? Aren’t they men? Didn’t they possess lands of which they were lords? How are we supposed to teach them the concepts of justice and mercy and the teachings of our Lord under these circumstances? Have they wronged us in any way?

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“Agreed!” Added Friar Luis Cancer almost overlapping with the voice of Antón, fearing that his brother, who rarely found himself lacking words, would continue the list of questions indefinitely. “But what can we do?” How do we awaken them from the deep slumber in which they so insensibly lay, how to move them beyond the thirst for gold that has taken over their heart?

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“We must pray and fasten” Replied Friar Pedro Cordoba with the authority conferred by his rank putting the conversation to an end. “Let’s continue our work”.

In the following weeks, the Order held many hours of council and prayed incessantly begging the Lord for clarity on the matter. They lit candles and offered vespers, matins and lauds. The answer seemed much clearer with each passing day. They would do what they did best: Preach. Preach publicly from the pulpit about the injustice and declare the state of sin these people lived in, leaving it clear where all this inhumanities and greed lead in the end, and what would be the reward received.

They all agreed that this was the course of action to be taken. Friar Pedro, being Vicar, led the talks among the other priest.

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“The first sermon on the topic should be written down and signed by all members of the congregatio so that there is not mistake that this is not the opinion of the man saying it but that it comes from the agreement, consent and approval of all of us.”

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“But who amongst us will carry the burden of speaking for us all?” asked Friar Luis, with an almost imperceptible streak of fear in his voice.

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“Friar Antón de Montesinos”. Replied de Vicar using a tone that indicated he spoke invoking the vow of obedience.

The Choice was obvious. Friar Antón was the best of them in the art of rhetoric, after the Vicar himself of course. He was graceful when he preached, but he had an unforgiving tone when scolding about vices and very effective creating an atmosphere of piety when reprimanding the congregation.

The Friar nodded in agreement, accepting the task.

To him was commended the delivery of the first sermon with such a novel topic for the Spaniards of this Island, and the topic was simple: That the killings of these Natives had to stop and that the eternal fires of hell awaited those who did not heed the call. Since it was the season of Advent, they agreed that the sermon should be delivered on the fourth Sunday, when Saint John’s gospel speaks about Pharisees that send emissaries to John The Baptist, asking who he was, to which he replied: “ Ego Vox Clamantis in

Deserto” (I am the voice crying out in the desert).

And to make sure that the whole city of Santo Domingo was present for Sunday’s homily - especially the most notorious citizens - and that none missed it, the friars invited the Second Admiral of the West

Indies, Don Diego Columbus and his wife, as well as all court officials appointed by the king and men knowledgeable of letters and laws. All were called upon in their own homes and told that the following Sunday at the main church there would be a sermon delivered in which they would disclose a matter of special interest for all, and that attendance would be of great importance. All decided to go in good faith, first to comply with such a gesture of being invited so formally, and second, for the esteem the Order had won amongst them with their frugal and devoted way of life.

The 21st day of December in the year of our Lord 1511 had finally arrived. Parishioners arrived early to secure a good seat. The room got suddenly quiet when Friar AntĂłn de Montesinos walked in and stood behind the pulpit.

Having made his introduction and said some things regarding the season of Advent, he started weaving together to ideas. The desert in the gospel and the desert in the barren insensitive hearts of the Spaniards that lived in the island. His voice resonated bouncing off from the walls, giving it an almost mystical effect.

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“I have come up here and stand in front of you to let you know that I am the voice of Christ in the Desert of this island, so it would be very wise for you to pay attention to what I am about to say. But not just the attention, you should hear what I am about to say with all your hearts and all your senses, because what you are about to hear is something new that you never have heard before. It would be the harshest, toughest, terrifying and dangerous thoughts you have ever heard.�

He went on for quite some time using pungent and powerful words that made their flesh tremble and made them feel as if they were standing in judgment on the last of days. The message that this voice declared was very simple and clear:

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“You are all in mortal sin, in which you live and perish for the cruelty and tyranny that you use against this innocent people. Tell me with what right and what justice you hold this Indians in such cruel and horrible servitude? Under what authority have you made such detestable wars to the people that were living in this island in such humble and peaceful way, where so many souls you have consumed with death and havoc? Why do you keep them so oppressed and tired, without giving them food or curing them of their illnesses, Illnesses they only suffer from the excessive work you have them do, such hard work that they die on you, or better said, you kill them, just to dig the gold that make you richer each day? And what diligence have you shown for them to be indoctrinated, to get to know their God and maker, to be baptized, to hear mass and keep holy days and Sundays?”

He paused for a second, as if he was about to lift a sword way up high to deliver one last fatal blow, then added with noticeable contempt:

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“Aren't they men? Don't they have rational souls? Aren't you obliged to love them as you love thy selves? Can't you understand this? Can't you feel this in your hearts? How is it that you sleep in such deep lethargic slumber? Hold as an inalienable truth that in the state you are living in, you will never receive salvation.”

Finally he descended from the pulpit with his head up high, for he was not a man who was easily intimidated, believing he had truly spoken in the name of the Lord. No one dared to utter a sound but all looked around in disbelief of what had just happened.

The friar and the rest of his congregation left before mass was over, heading straight to their house made of hay, where the only thing to eat, as it happened frequently, was cabbage soup. As soon as they left the murmur, that started almost immediately, started to grow louder and louder to the point where almost no one heard the final blessing of dismissal.

The midday meal was anything but dull in the homes of Santo Domingo that day. As soon as they had finished eating, little by little, citizens started to walk towards the home of the Admiral, Don Diego Columbus, son of the man who discovered these islands and second to hold this title, starting with the court officials, the chamberlain and aristocrats, down to the regular people, some of who cursed themselves for not attending what was probably the most exciting thing that had happened since 1492 and just had to find out what was going to happen next.

A group comprised of some of the most important people, led by the Admiral himself decided that they would head over to the house of the friars and demand an explanation of this new doctrine, unheard of by any man, with which they have defied the expressed consent of the King, who had entrusted this Indians to them to use in the manner in which they saw fit. They were completely outraged and, as they marched towards the home of the men who they believed had wronged them, emotions got heated and passions ran high.

Finally, they arrived at the door. They knocked and the doorman appeared. The Admiral spoke first.

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“May you please ask the Vicar and that Friar to receive us in this very instant, there are urgent matters we need to discuss.” He said with noticeable anger.

The man turned away and few moments later, the venerable father, Pedro de Cordoba, shows up by himself. They ask him to call the man who had preached, with a tone far from humility.

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“There is no need.” Replied the man of God with the patience that characterized him. “If your highness is in need of anything, I am the person in charge of the Order, and will be happy to comply with any request you may have.”

A brief exchange began that lasted a couple of minutes in which the group tried to get Friar Antón to appear at the door and his superior presented excuses and evasions. After a while, and because of the many natural virtues that the divine providence had vested upon the priest and that he had cultivated himself, the tone of the conversation started to dim, as the Admiral and the rest understood that by mere imposition of authority the Vicar was not going to be persuaded. They began to soften and humbly asked to please call for the priest, because in his presence, they would like to discuss the basis on which they founded such new and scandalous ideas, in detriment of the King and the rest of the good people of the city and the whole island.

Friar Pedro, realizing that the conversation had taken another course, and that spirits were being tempered, he called on Friar Antón de Montesinos, who appeared at the door probably without showing the distress he harbored in his heart.

They all sat down and the Admiral spoke first stating that he did so in the name of the rest.

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We would really like an explanation, theological or otherwise, of why such things were said in today's sermon. Things that could cause great damage to the King and to the whole land. Why would you say that we have no right to do as we please with this Indians, that the King, Lord of all his lands, gave to us after we won it for him with great pain and troubles, subjugating this infidel savages. Surely you must take it all back and mend this outrageous situation you have created.”

-

The Vicar replied. “What Friar Antón preached this morning was said under the consent, will and opinion of every member of this congregation after many nights of prayer and mature deliberations. We have determined that this truth must be preached as an evangelical truth for the salvation of all Spaniards and Natives of the island. We are obliged by the divine mandate that our profession demands and by the oath we took during our baptism, first as Christians and then as preachers of the truth of our Lord.” He took a second to emphasize that there would be a slight change of topic when he continued, and said: “We do not believe there is anything that harms the interests of our King in what we said. He sent us here to preach as we saw fit to better serve the souls of his subjects and bring them closer to the Lord. I am sure that if King Ferdinand knew of the atrocities being committed here and of what was said today at the pulpit, he would not only rejoice, but thank us.

After a second the visitors started to speak all at the same time. The words recently spoken seemed to have no effect on them and they kept arguing that the priests had no authority with which to claim that what they're doing was wrong in any way and not in accordance to the orders of the King. In the end

they clearly stated that if the next Sunday the friar did not take his place again to take back everything he had said, they better gather all the things and head back to Spain.

-

“That endeavor, my good gentlemen, - said Friar Pedro referring to the ill-intentioned comment about their possessions - would take us a very short time indeed�.

Seeing how the priests did not bulge to any threats, they began to soften their speech again, thinking that using the same strategy that had worked to get the preacher out could help them to reach some form of compromise. They begged that for the sake of the towns people, the Order should revise their position and give a more moderate homily the following Sunday, trying to bring rest and calm to the community who was even more impressed than them about what had happened, again, for the sake of the people that should be eased into new concepts and ideas since they had no understanding of such complicated matters.

After a while, and with the intention of dismissing them as soon as possible from the premises and be done with their frivolous demands, the priests agreed that the following Sunday the same friar would take the pulpit again to speak on the matter what he saw fit in accordance with what the Order decided after consulting the best way to resolve this issue and trying to satisfy all parties. With this said, the men left happily and with hope that their intervention had been fruitful.

Some of the men present at that meeting had spread the word that on the following Sunday the same Friar would speak again and take back everything he had said. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to affirm that every single one of the inhabitants of the city was present and on time at the church for Sunday's service.

When the time of the homily arrived, Friar Antón got up again, took a deep breath, and after a second that seemed to last a lifetime started to read from the book of Job, chapter 36, which begins by saying

“Bear with me a little longer and I will show you that there is more to be said in God’s behalf…”

Upon hearing this lines, the keenest of them knew where this was headed. After finishing the reading from the Bible, the friar began to say:

-

“I will begin by slowly and from the beginning to explain why everything I said last week, those words that brought some of you so much discomfort, are unequivocally the will of our Lord.”

And so he began to review his last sermon corroborating with even more reasons and authority what he affirm to be injustice and tyrannical practices against these oppressed and tired peoples, reminding them that none would be saved under the state and that they should remedy the situation, and that until then no one would receive confession.

Again the Friars left before the end of the service, and again all retired to their homes to eat. After their meal they agreed not to speak to the Friars again but to take matters into their own hands. They started planning for an emissary to leave as soon as possible for Spain bringing letters to all their friends and aides in the court, and with the specific intention of speaking directly with the King to inform him of the magnitude of the situation, both socially and economically.

With every available resource at his disposal the emissary left for Spain in a matter of days aboard the fastest ship with all luxuries and accommodations available, taking with him all sorts of gifts with which

to gain the favor of the people closest to the King. When he arrived he did not waste much time and began to deliver all messages bearing all sorts of tokens from the “New World” that were in such demand in those days; and of course, gold.

Obviously, an audience with the King was promptly set up while backing the island the Dominican priests struggled to find a way of getting Friar Antón on a ship across the Atlantic. They asked for alms here and there, and because of their piety and the way they had always conducted themselves, the poorest of the poor gave what they could until the fair for the trip was gathered and the priest could set sail on the darkest corner of the smallest ship.

The emissary had gained the favor of the king by the time Friar Antón de Montesinos arrived, and having explained to the him how out of touch with reality the demands of the Order of preachers were, had already been appointed as a member of the Council that oversaw all matters regarding the West Indies.

Having heard of the arrival of the friar, the emissary had bribed the guard that stood faithfully in front of the door where the King held hearings, so that the friar would never gain entrance.

Day after day Friar Antón went to see the King and day after day he got sent away. No matter how much he demanded, pleaded or begged the answer was always the same. The King was not available to him.

He tried to talk to the people close to the King but his name has been dragged through the mud and nobody wanted nothing to do with him.

The friar stood next to the door every day in silence, so much that the guard had already gotten accustomed to the silhouette of the man. It became as part of the décor. But this was all part of a plan.

One day when the guard the least expected it, he opened the door for some of the regular acquaintances from the court and the priest bolted through the door leaving the guard perplexed

without knowing how to react knowing that if he ran in after him, his mistake would have been evident to all and his life might be in danger.

As soon as the friar got in he said:

-

“Your Highness, I beg just for a minute of your time for the things I have to say to you are of great importance”.

The King, who apparently was in a good mood, replied:

-

“Well, speak father. What is it you have to say?

The priest carried with him a roll of paper written by chapters stating the particular cruelties that had been perpetrated, in times of war's and peace, to the natives of the island, as given by the testimony of a lay brother who had witnessed them, and other atrocities that occurred in the mines. He got down on his knees and began to read.

-

“These Indians lived peacefully on her land without offending any living soul. Being in their homes, Spaniards will go in and take their wives and daughters and sons, and doing whatever they please with them. The man they took and worked with no regards for their lives, and when dead did not feel any remorse. Many other violent acts were perpetrated, to the point where the natives took to the hills to try and save themselves.

If any of them presented any threat or showed any sign of courage, regardless of their antiquated weaponry, they would parade naked and beaten them in front of the others until shrieks never before heard by mankind were uttered. They would cut them in half, or make beds

of whom could collect their heads off with one blow. Burned them alive in front of their families and other exquisite cruelties; as one that I was unfortunate enough to witness, when a group of Spaniards laughing out loud on the edge of a river, grabbed a small infant not more than two or three years old, through him over their shoulders into the river. The child did not sunk right away and kept his head above water for a second. To which the man that had thrown him replied: he can swim! Can you see, he can swim!”

The King could not believe what he was hearing and said:

-

Is this possible?

The priest continued to speak about other atrocities per trade under his name. About the cruelties of the divisions of land and men, resulting in separation of entire families, the harsh conditions of labor, the lack of care of their souls and their health. He told the King how pregnant women swallowed herbs and berries that made them deliver dead beings in order to spare them from the infernal labor and treatment. He told them how they were treated worse than animals and with no consideration of their souls. Then he added as his final argument:

-

“This is surely not the will of Your Highness. A ruler so merciful and pious could never want this.

This could not be done by order and consent of the King, is it? I know that this could not be true and that I spoke as if your Grace’s heart had spoken directly to me. Tell me my Lord, I done wrong? Have I spoken out of term or consonant with your desires?”

The King looked sad and hurt, as if somehow he only wished he could no sooner to remedy the situation.

-

“Rise father - he said- you have done well in this matter should be addressed hastily and with the importance it deserves. I will have my counsel of the Indies debate and draw a document which under my consent and my full support will put an end to the horrors you speak of.

This said, Friar AntĂłn de Montesinos stood up, kissed the king's hand and left knowing he had been a faithful instrument of the Lord.

The document consistented of seven main points, as told by that 18 year old young man, BartolomĂŠ de Las Casas, who inspired by the example of the Dominican friars wrote about this and many other stories from that time, becoming a priest himself and fighting in the name of Native Americans. Today is considered one of the fist advocates of human rights.

1. The Indians were free men and should be treated as such.

2. That they should be instructed in the faith and this should be done with diligence.

3. That they should work but that the work in no way get in the way of their instruction in the faith and that it should be fruitful for them and the Republic 4. That the work should be such that they could endure and that they should have time for recreation, every day, all year round, at convenient times.

5. That they should have their own houses and land, and the dishes have time work keep and maintain such lands in their own accordance.

6. That communication should always be open between both communities so they would be more disposed to matters pertaining the Catholic faith.

7. That they should be paid a convenient wage for their labor, not with money, but with dresses and other things they may need for their homes and lands.

National Writing Project In New Hampshire Teacher Lore: Break up letter to Mr. Keating

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Diรณmedes Fernรกndez Diomedes Fernandez Teacher Lore Final Draft Break up letter to Mr. Keating (teacher from the movie Dead Poets Society) Dear K., The particular scent of the 200 year old northeaster college town, its brick buildings with beautiful burgundy shades and the sounds of students that giggle and laugh in the background is very similar to

were you used to teach and to everything I ever dreamed of. That is precisely why I can’t wait a minute longer to write this letter and tell you what I have been feeling for some time.

I guess there is no easy way to say this so I’ll just say it bluntly. I feel that this is the end of the road for us. It’s so hard to say this because I thought that you and I would last forever, like those high school sweethearts that grow old side by side watching the sunset every afternoon in matching rocking chairs. I am still fighting the urge not to use that old cliché: “It’s not you, it’s me”.

I still remember the day I met you. I was so young and naïve. I was barely 16 years of age. What does a 16 year old know about anything but dreams? And there you were, larger than life. Doing what you do best, playing with words, as you said a million times…letting poetry drip from our tongues like honey.

I fell in love with you like the young irrational teenager that I was. I idolized you like a god who, sitting in mount Olympus, decided to place his eyes on this mortal soul. I was hypnotized by your experience, the way you moved around, how you talked to people. How you talked to me.

I guess at some point I just wanted to be like you. How could I ever begin to understand myself without you in my life? You shaped me into the person I am today. I looked to you for advice in any situation asking myself like a fanatic, “What Would Keating Do?”. You gave me words to live by, words that helped me get thru the toughest moments in my life and helped me make the best out of every second of every single day, words that I engraved in my body like a foolish lover, to never forget you.

But life is not a fairy tale and people grow up. I understood that being a teacher is so much more than telling a few jokes and reading a few poems, oh no my love, life is way much more complicated than that.

You were my muse, I understand that now, but muses are fleeting beings that come and go, and now I

know that it’s my turn to leave you and move on. You will always remain by my side and your memory will live inside of me forever.

I guess I had to grow up sometime and it took me a while to do so, but we have to admit we’ve been growing apart slowly for quite some time. In silence, little by little, like it usually happens when love dies.

I guess as one gets older things are viewed from a different perspective and romance takes on a completely different meaning. I guess with the years, words are just not enough.

With maturity I realized that no matter how much I loved you, I could never BE you. I have my own life and struggles that are nothing like yours. My life is way too much complex for your simple formula of living day to day. I am not a teenager anymore. I should not be trying to be you, but me.

I will not get to walk away into the sunset while the camera stays behind like in the movies. The camera follows me no matter where I go. Sometimes places as unromantic as the supermarket. But that is exactly my battle. To learn to complete this simple everyday tasks, not because they hold some deeper meaning, but because they are part of my life.

I will not lie to you and I don’t want you to find out from anyone other than me. I met someone else. I didn’t want to tell you because it is impossible that after, you could get out of your head that he is the reason for our separation. The truth is that I just met him. I’ve only seen him once but I can definitely feel that this can develop into something. His name is Dan, Dan Dunne. He teaches history; and yes, he’s younger, he’s pretty and blonde, and has a smile – when he smiles - that melts students away. But that has nothing to do with it.

What I like about him is that he is real. Full of flaws like any man. Someone I definitely don’t want to be like, at least not in everything. But he has fire inside. Passion and compassion. He is human, like me. Not perfect. Not some hero up above looking down at my mistakes with condescendence. I think he could get to understand me - someday - because he is as messed up as I am… But I promised myself that I wouldn’t go on about him because this is not the time or place, and it’s probably the last thing you want to hear right now.

I guess this is it for us. You have been my role model for as long as I can remember and the best imaginary friend a person could have.

I will never forget you. Thanks for being my mentor and taking me under your wing. Thanks for all the memories.

Mr. D

Diomedes Fernandez Teacher Lore Author’s Note Since the beginning of the Institute the movie “Dead Poets Society” has been mentioned a few times, and to my surprise, not always in the best light. I have always said that that is one of my favorite films of all times and one of the reasons why I became a teacher. Since we came here to open up to new experiences and ideas, that's exactly what I did. I began to question the role of this movie, and especially

of its main character, Mr. Keating, in the teacher I am today. Immediately I saw how I had idealized this character, and our profession by association.

In the article “Stories and the teaching life” that we had to read for our inquiry groups the topic was addressed head on and I could see it clearly. The author spoke about three things that hinder the perception society has of teachers and things that go in detriment of the perception we may have of ourselves, which he calls: The narrative of abstraction, the narrative of complaint, and the narrative of heroism.

In regards to the narrative of heroism he mentions:

“The bestseller shelves and movie screens have been filled for the whole course of my teaching career with this heroic narrative whose story line is basically, "How I went into a rotten school with venal administrators and lazy colleagues and predatory students and by the application of my special skills and insights and heroic commitment — all by myself, of course, supported by no one else, no community of fellow teachers or parents — turned things around and then saved the world . . . oh, and then probably got fired." This is the John Wayne genre of the educational story: lone hero rides into town and single-handedly slays all the bad guys”.

I could clearly see what was wrong with my perception of the movie and its main character. Specifically the damage it could do to the perception I have of my work and my self-esteem. This romanticized idea of teachers that arrive and save the day in 90 min. without going to bed late grading papers, preparing lesson plans, making photocopies, fighting with the AV department for malfunctioning equipment; has very little resemblance to what teachers go through every day. I began to see how unreal these movies really were.

A week later, as we analyzed the story “Touched by the past” in our writing groups we also spoke about the humanity of teachers. The way we are made of flesh and bone, and how unlike those teachers in movies we actually were. Someone mentioned the movie “Half Nelson” as a more realistic portrait of a teacher/man and the struggles of everyday life. The story we read included a letter and so our writing exercise for that day was to write a letter. I decided to write a letter to Mr. Keating, and even though I had started developing another idea for my teacher lore, I liked the way it came out and recognized that it was a feeling that I should delve into. There was something powerful about my relationship to this character, something that I feared facing, and that is exactly why I decided to pursue it.

By the time I started working on my second draft I had already watched the movie “Half Nelson” and decided to include it in the piece to give it a more realistic feel and responding to the feedback given by my writing partners who told me I should include reasons for the “break up”. It may seem like an innocent piece but emotionally was quite a ride. I believe it helped me condense many ideas and it definitely changed the way I perceive myself as a teacher.

Diomedes Fernandez Teacher Lore 1st Draft Break up letter to Mr. Keating (from the Dead Poets Society)

Dear Mr. K.

I guess this is the end for us. It is so hard to write this letter because I thought that you and I would last forever, like those “match made in heaven� couples that grow old together.

Now I know that I have to let you go and move on. You will always remain by my side and your memory will live inside of me forever.

It is funny how when a person leaves, one starts to only remember the good things, but in this case, I just was able to see things clearly.

No matter how much I love you, I could never BE you. I have my own life and struggles that take longer than 90 minutes to resolve. My life is way too much complex for your simple formula.

I will not walk away into the sunset while the camera stays with another teacher that follows my footsteps. The camera follows me no matter where I go. Sometimes places as unromantic as the toilet.

I get the measles and the flu. I have to go to the supermarket a lot more times in a week than I would like to. But that is exactly my battle. To learn to complete this simple everyday tasks with a smile on my face. Not just the big climax moments.

My struggles is not the one dimension evil principal that cares more for the rules that for the kids, but the one that filled with good intentions, doesn’t know how to say no to them, and believe me, sometimes they need to hear the word no.

So I guess this is it for us. You have been my role model for as long as I can remember and the best imaginary friend a person could have.

I will never forget you.

Thanks for all the memories.

Mr. D

National Writing Project In New Hampshire Teacher Exploration Process Paper:

Passion and Compassion

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Diรณmedes Fernรกndez Teaching Exploration Reflection Process Paper

By Diรณmedes Fernรกndez Passion and Compassion When we were invited to participate in the writing Institute, each of us was told to bring a successful writing practice that we used back home with our students. The sharing and

analyzing of this practices was called teacher exploration. In my case, it was kind of hard to find what I was going to bring because I am not teaching any subjects in English at the present time.

I asked some students to voluntarily turn in the final paper in English, the rest I had to translate.

My practice was based on the advantages of brainstorming before writing an essay. The main goal of my exploration was to help students generate ideas, organize thoughts, and decrease tension and stress when writing an essay with the use of brainstorming. I usually ask students to write five paragraphs for the essays they turn in, just because it is a solid number and not at all because of the “five paragraph essay” that is so important to learn in the American educational system. My biggest surprise was to find out how strong the concept of the five paragraph essay is embedded in the minds of American students. When I mentioned at the beginning of my exploration the words “five paragraph essay” I could see chills going up and down people’s spines.

Obviously, the first lesson learned, or better yet, the first lesson I really need to learn is: What is the structure of a five-paragraph essay as taught in the United States? I understand logically and almost intuitively what is the structure of that type of essay, but I guess I need to find out more about why it is such an important tool and why does it create such a negative impact in people when you mentioned these words.

One of the ideas shared during the protocol was the familiarity with which I treat my students, which showed in the writing of student work presented. Somebody said that apparently, the relationship in my classes between teachers and students is more horizontal than vertical. To

quote what someone noticed from the practice: “students are treated as respected colleagues�.

I was really glad to hear this because it is something that I work very hard to achieve in my classes. But also on this topic, a couple questions were raised that still have me thinking, such as: What are the dangers of strong personal relations with students? And, how do you think the social status of the students affected the relationship with the teacher as reflected in the essays? These two questions I take with me to reflect more upon them.

Maybe because I was a little bit nervous, or because I was anxious to start the lesson, but I forgot to read a poem written by one of my students to begin the class as I usually do back home. About 10 min. after beginning the practice I realized it and was faced with the question: Should I interrupt the process of the class as it was planned - waiting for an opportunity to read the poem - or should I just let it go, depriving the group of this experience? I had to make a decision fast. I opted for sharing the poem at the most convenient moment. I believe in the end it was the right choice because the material still gave the class certain sensitivity I wanted to reach before they began writing their essays. In the end, it also gave way to a very interesting discussion on the importance of rules and when should they be broken. Some of the probing questions that came out of this were: When is it appropriate for students to break the rules of writing? What are the rules of writing and who decides them? How can we find a balance between structuring a lesson and embracing digressions, inquiry, and beauty, like when we stopped to read the poem?

In terms of the practice itself and the goals I wanted to reach with the group I was very happy to realize that with the use of brainstorming - especially in the way specified by the exercise – that

is, by making two lists, one with general ideas and the second choosing an idea contained in the first; gives excellent results. Students reported that indeed the first lists helped them generate more thoughts and by the time they picked what to write on the second list, it was easier to organize their thoughts better, before writing the essay. They commented that there was definitely a reduction in stress levels perceived, even with the dreaded “five paragraph essay”.

Someone expressed the following about the practice: “at the beginning writing an essay seemed like hard work but because of the brainstorming session it was easy to do”, and another said, “the stress level was very low and in the end, the practice had a certain flow to it”. One of the most interesting probing questions regarding this part of the exploration was that someone noticed that in one of the student’s work brought from home and in the ones produced right then and there, nobody chose to develop the first idea written in the first list of topics. One of the probing questions stated: Why didn’t any student choose the first item on the list? What does that say about our brains and thought processes?

About myself and what really sets me apart as a teacher, sort of like my particular hallmark that I bring to class every day, I have discovered during the teacher exploration that it could be summarized in two words: Passion and Compassion. Everyone noticed the passion with which I speak and conduct myself, it is obvious that I am passionate about teaching and it shows. When one listens to somebody who feels passion for the topic they are discussing there is a magical attraction that pulls people in and keeps them there. The other, compassion, was noticed in the way that I talked to people in the classroom and the gestures that I used. Some people wrote about the practice: “When calling upon students he smiled and said ‘yes’ with open arms”, and

“teacher displayed enthusiasm (a lot of it) and gave extra time when students were clearly not done”. Passion and Compassion. Great words to live by.

In regards to the other explorations done by my colleagues, there were many excellent ideas to implement and that I take with me as food for thought. The techniques I can't wait to apply in the classrooms include Mary Anne McGarry’s “providing feedback on, sharing and honoring guest presenters” because I have a lot of guest speakers come into my classroom. I would also like to attempt something similar to James Smith's “2 million dollar disaster”, a re-writing exercise about misinterpreting written texts and e-mails; and elements from Elisabeth Hadzima’s “persuasive arguments essays” starting by eliciting emotional and personal response in students.

But the most important idea that stays in my head and I will definitely think about for a long time to come is inclusion. From Kimberly Meyer’s exploration, I wrote in my journal: “I keep going back to that ‘when will we as humanity’ question in my head. Seeing how things are handled in the US regarding inclusion really makes me think that a different type of future is possible in the Dominican Republic.

about myself, just the fact that I realized after the visit to the women's exhibit at the White Mountains Museum that I do not ever want to use the word “mankind” - ever again - and will replace it with the word “humanity” from now on in all my writings and thought processes, makes me believe change is possible and that it starts with small things, as small as a word.

In regards to all the ESL teacher explorations we saw, especially Jorge Palermo and Eliderkis Sanchez, the two ideas that are still creating noise inside of me are: Should we use the native language to give instructions to students in the first lessons of the beginner’s cycle and gradually move to English? And, how inclusive is the vocabulary we use to teach a foreign language especially to young kids? In a word like the one we live in, should we be still describing a family as mom, dad, and kids? In the poorest parts of the country, where students have very little chance of even being the first ones in their neighborhood to go to college, shouldn’t we be teaching a vocabulary closest to their reality instead of teaching big words like “architect” and “engineer” in response to the question: What do your parents do for a living?

I will be eternally grateful to the Institute for giving me the opportunity of sharing with such wonderful teachers, but I am even more grateful still to each of the participants who opened their hearts and practices for me to learn and who so carefully and respectfully gave me feedback on my own practice. One last thing I take with me and that will always cherish are the eternal words repeated to us almost every day: “Trust the process”.

National Writing Project In New Hampshire

Inquiry Paper: Past, Present and Future of Handwriting

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Diรณmedes Fernรกndez Inquiry Paper Diรณmedes Fernรกndez

Past, Present and Future of Handwriting

I remember as if it was today the moment my wife told me we were going to have a child. Being a teacher, on that same day I started thinking about her education, but in all my years of teaching, I have never taught students under 12 years of age so I had no idea on what to do during the early formative years. Is it fair that I spend the whole day educating the children of other people and just leave the education of my own to somebody else? After thinking about it, I started a long campaign to sell the idea of homeschooling to my family. My efforts bore no results, but I did not lose hope until finally one day, the perfect situation presented itself. The owner of the small private pre-school my daughter was attending approached me and asked if I wanted to invest and become his economic partner in this new venture he was just beginning. Since he has no experience in teaching, all my ideas and thoughts would be welcomed with open arms. This year the oldest class in the school is going to begin first grade and the idea is to open a new grade each year. This is what motivates the topic of my inquiry paper. I find myself undertaking the daunting task of teaching – not only my daughter but a whole group of children – the beautiful but challenging art of writing.

As I began my research I realized this topic was more controversial than what I had thought at the beginning. As time goes by and technology becomes more relevant in our daily lives, many questions arise and it becomes urgent to try to find answers. Is typing going to change the way we learn how to write? What are the advantages of handwriting? These questions represent the two sides of the debate: typing versus handwriting. There are many other topics being discussed by scientists and educators in this area, like the importance of cursive handwriting over print or the use of new technology like speech recognition. I decided started my research focusing on the importance of handwriting.

This topic is not new, a piece from 2009 written by Howard R. Debs, reports that back in 1955 there was an article in the Saturday Evening Post that suggests that the end of handwriting was sure to come due

to: “an increasing reliance on telephone, typewriter, dictating machines and electronic brains”. I'm guessing that by electronic brains they meant computers. The use of cell phones, tablets, and computers to communicate is growing by the minute. People rarely get to write by hand anymore. The U.S. Postal Service says that the number of priority mail sent a decade ago has reduced itself to half - around 46 billion a year - but 205 million e-mails are sent each day on a global scale. This makes us wonder, is it really relevant to teach handwriting skills in the 21st century?

Another reason why the debate has renewed its fire is because of the Common Core State Standards Initiative and the fact that in recent days Finland stopped teaching cursive handwriting in their schools.

The Common Core are a group of consistent strong clear benchmarks for English, language, arts, and math applied in every state of the U.S. since 2010 to make sure that every kid, grades kindergarten to 12th, regardless of where they study - Seattle or Florida, public or private school - is prepared to face the same challenges at different moments of the educational process. Even though local communities still get to design their own curriculum, in the end, students will be measured by the same standards. The problem is that the common core does not mention the specific task of learning to write in cursive letters, and some reports suggest that this has led to as many as 45 states opting out of teaching cursive and created a whole avalanche of opinions for and against this fact.

To begin understanding what the big problem about not having cursive in schools, first I had to find out how is writing normally taught to small children. I found out that there are basically three steps is in the process of teaching children how to write in the United States of America. These are cursive, print and type. Every school has its own particular “cookbook” containing the recipe used to combine these ingredients into their curriculum. And for example, at Dunbarton Elementary School, 3 rd-grade teacher Candance Harrison says cursive is taught at the beginning of grade 3 and reinforced through grade 6.

“Typically, by January, the students in grades three are able to read and are writing completely in cursive.

It is mandatory in the district because of the many benefits of writing in cursive… I believe it is important to teach it, but with that said, I understand that there is less of a need for it in a child's future because keyboarding is so prevalent and relevant”. Students at Maple Avenue elementary school also begin learning cursive writing in third grade. 3rd-grade teacher Denise Morris says students spend 20 min. each day, at least four times per week practicing cursive writing. They begin by learning lower case and upper case letters, their names and the date and, by the end of April, they are writing, spelling words and longer assignments in cursive. Classes in cursive continued in grades four and five.

But, when in the process do print and typing come in, and most important, in what order should print, cursive and type be taught? To understand this better, I interviewed New Hampshire teachers Christina Lamson and Andy Mercer. In the case of Mrs. Lamson’s school, children start in pre-K to learn print with inventive writing, the practice of spelling unfamiliar words by making an educated guess as to the correct spelling based on the writer's existing phonetic knowledge. They start learning to type by first grade, not using the correct finger positions but what is informally known as “pluck and play”, and are expected to turn in typed papers. Cursive is the last step beginning in third grade. In Mr. Mercer's school, the librarian starts teaching keyboard formation in kindergarten, starting with the first row and the correct finger position. His students don't see cursive writing until third grade, in third grade is mandatory and in fourth grade becomes optional. Nonetheless, they both agree that the correct order should be cursiveprint-type.

After reaching this part of my inquiry, I wondered about how it all began. What is writing and where does it come from? To find out which method could be better or even the order they should be taught, I needed to know a little more about the history of writing. When did writing become more than just drawings that represent animals or objects? When did it begin to represent the sounds used to express words? Where does cursive as we write it today come from?

Writing is a way of communicating, but there is no simple way of determining where it was used for the first time. There are many civilizations, like the ones in Mesoamerica, that we have no record of how or even when they began writing. But if take the history of Western civilizations as a frame of reference, we would have to begin our journey in ancient Sumer, roughly 3500 years BC. Temples received donations of grains and animals in times of abundance and served as big depositories that gave back to the people in times of need. To keep a record of what was being stored, little marks were made on clay tablets that were later stored to know exactly what amounts were kept safe in the Temple. At first, those marks were simply drawings of the articles being stored, but as generations passed, these drawings were simplified and became more abstract to make the job of tallying a lot faster. These new symbols were usually agreed upon by the priests. After some time, the symbol for the animal “cow” also started being used as the symbol for the sound of the word “cow”, and since in the Sumerian language almost all words were monosyllabic, concepts began to be built out of putting words together. For example, the concept of “fish” came from the combination of the words “food” + “water”. From there it is easy to comprehend how a whole new different set of concepts began to be written down combining the sounds of these basic symbols to express what was transmitted orally.

Still, in Sumer symbols represented concepts and sounds, and they were both mixed. The first example of a writing system based purely on consonant sounds were inscriptions found in the Sinai Peninsula, dated around 1700 BC. Creating meaning by only merging sound signs was a real writing revolution. This is considered the first steps towards the Phoenician alphabet, around 1000 BC. The Phoenicians were a maritime trading culture who spread the use of their alphabet everywhere they did business. Their alphabet was based on the idea that each sign represented one consonant and it contained only 22 symbols. Soon, with modest adjustments, this letters would be fitted to the diverse tongues of Europe,

India, and Southeast Asia. This was the source of the Greek and later Roman alphabet, which in turn are the basis of the alphabet we use today.

The creation of cursive handwriting is attributed to Niccolo Niccoli. A man who worked at the service of Cosimo de Medici as a copyist of ancient manuscripts for his library. From all his work, and the numerous copies he had to make, he decided to tilt his lettering to make them easier to write and connect them with one another without lifting the quilt from the paper. This type of cursive script is now known as italic. But still, for many years writing was not meant for everybody and it remained the privilege of an elite group comprised of scribes, scholars, and later monks. In colonial times in America, many people knew how to read but very few knew how to write, usually, only merchants and professionals could. By the 18th century, writing had become more common for both men and women, eventually passing from tutors to public schools.

In a podcast from Freakonomics radio, Anne Trubek, the author of an article we will talk about later called “Stop teaching handwriting” - which went viral on the Internet and received a lot of critics - and an upcoming book entitled “the history and uncertain future of handwriting” fields in the gap on what happened since the 19th century to our days: “And then in the middle of the 19th century, you have the first, sort of, penmanship franchise where Platt Rogers Spencer develops a script that, he believes is religiously infused, and will make you become more moral and more Christian, and in tune with nature; and it really sweeps the nation and everyone starts adopting that script. He would be replaced by Palmer, who is more familiar to us now, whose Palmer method comes around in the late 19th century; and it is aimed to be a more masculine and industrial script for a more industrial age. And then that becomes really the one way that every American is taught their scripts until the second half of the 20th century where it, sort of, fragments.”

On the other hand, the history of typing is a lot shorter. Experiments began at least as far back as 1714, but the first typewriter that actually worked was created in 1808 by the Pellegrino Turri, this Italian man created the writing device to help his blind friend, the Countess Carolina Fantoni da Fivizzano. We have no idea today know how this machine might have looked, but we do have samples of letters written in it.

Many people attempted during the 18th century to create a popular typing machine but it wasn't until the Sholes & Glidden Type Writer, which began production in late 1873 and appeared on the American market in 1874, that it really became mainstream. The Sholes & Glidden typed only in capital letters, and it introduced the QWERTY keyboard, which is the one mostly used today. The keyboard was probably designed this way to avoid keys that of pairs of letters that commonly go together to get stuck. After a small success of the Sholes & Glidden, a new machine - the Remington - suddenly took over the market.

Then came electric typewriters and later computer style word processors. In the 21st century, almost everybody owns or has access to a device where they can type their thoughts.

After learning the history of writing I decided to look for the pros and cons of handwriting and typing.

Although, I have to admit that I found very little information on the benefits of typing and an overabundant amount of sources - including articles, books, and scientific research - supporting the use of handwriting. To me, it was very eye-opening to see the passion with which most people defend handwriting and I felt that the tone use in many of them was defensive, to say the least. It was more as if they were defending the current way of life against the new uncertain times ahead. Let's begin by analyzing some very strong arguments for the use of handwriting in the classroom. I chose to cite 3 sources that really give out a good idea of the general arguments out there. They come from the following articles: “What's lost as handwriting fades” by Maria Konnikova, “Why handwriting is still essential in the keyboard age” by Perri Klass, M.D. and “The future of handwriting” by Paul Sawers.

Although arguments presented are more in the articles are more than convincing, nothing works better for this purpose than scientific facts. Here are some of what these studies present .

Research #1 conducted by Karin James talks about what happens in the brain when we write by hand.

Karin James, a professor of psychological and brain sciences at Indiana University, did brain scans on children who did not yet know how to print. “Their brains don’t distinguish letters; they respond to letters the same as to a triangle,” she said.

After the children were taught to print, patterns of brain activation in response to letters showed increased activation of that reading network, including the fusiform gyrus, along with the inferior frontal gyrus and posterior parietal regions of the brain, which adults use for processing written language — even though the children were still at a very early level as writers.

“The letters they produce themselves are very messy and variable, and that’s actually good for how children learn things,” Dr. James said. “That seems to be one big benefit of handwriting.”

In another study, Dr. James is comparing children who physically form letters with those who only watch others doing it. Her observations suggest that it is only the actual effort that engages the brain’s motor pathways and delivers the learning benefits of handwriting.

Research #2 conducted by Laura Dinehart speaks about the relation between good handwriting and academic achievement.

In an article in The Journal of Early Childhood Literacy, Laura Dinehart, an associate professor of early childhood education at Florida International University, discussed several possible associations between good handwriting and academic achievement: Children with good handwriting may get better grades because their work is more pleasant for teachers to read; children who struggle with writing may find that too much of their attention is consumed by producing the letters, and the content suffers.

But can we actually stimulate children’s brains by helping them form letters with their hands? In a population of low-income children, Dr. Dinehart said, the ones who had good early fine motor writing skills in prekindergarten did better later on in school. She called for more research on handwriting in the preschool years, and on ways to help young children develop the skills they need for “a complex task” that requires the coordination of cognitive, motor and neuromuscular processes.

Research #3 conducted by Virginia Berninger tells us how handwriting produces words more quickly and expresses more ideas and also may help writing disorders like with Dyslexia and Dysgraphia.

In a study that followed children in grades two through five, Virginia Berninger, a psychologist at the University of Washington, demonstrated that printing, cursive writing, and typing on a keyboard are all associated with distinct and separate brain patterns — and each results in a distinct end product. When the children composed text by hand, they not only consistently produced more words more quickly than they did on a keyboard, but expressed more ideas. And brain imaging in the oldest subjects suggested that the connection between writing and idea generation went even further. When these children were asked to come up with ideas for a composition, the ones with better handwriting exhibited greater neural activation in areas associated with working memory — and increased overall activation in the reading and writing networks.

Dr. Berninger goes so far as to suggest that cursive writing may train self-control ability in a way that other modes of writing do not, and some researchers argue that it may even be a path to treating dyslexia. A 2012 review suggests that cursive may be particularly effective for individuals with developmental dysgraphia — motor control difficulties in forming letters — and that it may aid in preventing the reversal and inversion of letters.

In the end, and besides all these data, most people agree - including Dr. Berninger - that the way to go is to teach a hybrid method where children learn all three types of writing. Angela Webb, chairman of the National Handwriting Association in the U.K believes that handwriting is not under any real threat, at least not for a long time in most schools around the world, even in the United Kingdom, being a “first world country”, there are just not enough resources for each student to use a computer. “Handwriting is actually coming back on the syllabus in some UK secondary schools to combat the scourge of text messaging.” In my interview with Mrs. Lamson she seems to agree, stating that “in my school there's no enough money for programs like that” and she adds in defense of handwriting that “because in cursive writing letters are connected, it helps develop more cognitive abilities”, she also agrees with the widespread idea that when taking notes students remember far better when they are hand written than typed. Mr. Mercer also shared an interesting opinion: "The problem with not focusing on either of the three methods and jumping around from one to the other is that in the end printed penmanship is terrible, cursive is messy and typing skills are slow and weak. We need consistency.”

Before beginning to talk about the benefits of typing I would like to comment one last reason that I repeatedly found in many articles and sources. I don't find this fact to be scientific but rather very amusing. Its advocates passionately defend that cursive writing must be taught in schools in order for kids to be able to understand the words written in the documents that founded the nation like the Constitution and the declaration of independence. I understand the widespread use of this argument because it appeals to the emotion of patriotism which is one of the concepts frequently used to promote legislature changes all the time. I have to say that the continuous presence of this argument during my research it bothered me a little. I believe the best counter arguments for this I found in the Freakonomics podcasts: “If this was true we would all need to learn Hebrew to be able to read the Bible”.

As I mentioned before listening to this podcast of an interview with Anne Trubek I discovered her article “Stop teaching handwriting”. This is where I found the heart of this story. Anne had a very personal reason to stop thinking about the data thrown around by scientists.

“My son, who is in third grade, spends much of his school day struggling to learn how to form the letter "G." Sometimes he writes it backward. Sometimes the tail on his lowercase "T" goes the wrong way. His teachers keep telling him he may fail the state assessment standards. We have had several "interventions." Simon now fears taking up a pencil. Repeatedly being told his handwriting is bad (a fine-motor-skill issue) has become, in his mind, proof that he is a bad writer (an expression issue). He now hates writing, period.”

So Anne began her personal crusade against a system that includes pen manufacturers and publishing houses for cursive writing methods, out of love for her child. Her words were as powerful to me as any data, especially after talking so much about inclusion during this summer Institute. Her article continues: “This is absurd: I am a college professor and a freelance writer, and the only time I pick up a pen is to sign a credit-card receipt. Let's stop brutalizing our kids with years of drills on the proper formation of a cursive capital "S". Handwriting is a historical blip in the long history of writing technologies, and it's time to consign to the trash heap this artificial way of making letters, along with clay tablets, smoke signals, and other arcane technologies.”

She makes a strong point. I remember my own experience with Palmer when I was growing up. I can still feel the frustration of having to stay inside during afternoons and some summers because teachers had told my mother that I needed to fill booklet after booklet of the Palmer method. To the point where I myself almost develop a certain feeling close to hatred for the written word. And with it came the bad grades in all other subjects (Palmer was a separate subject in the catholic school I went to) because even

though my answers might have been right, my penmanship was just too “ugly”, so points got deducted.

If I had been born in another family and social setting, that frustration might have been a good reason to drop out of school. I imagine that many students end up dropping out because of poor penmanship and all that is associated with it. I started writing in print in at age 13 - even though the school never taught us how - just as a way to rebel against Palmer’s “Iron Fist” dictatorship during my childhood. I can write beautifully in cursive, I just never do.

This was very similar to Anne Trubek son’s experience as she continues to share: “It was really detrimental. He really thought he was bad at school. I mean, I ended up actually transferring him to a private school and this was a lot of the reason why. And they said, “Oh, you know, ‘he’s school-damaged.’” And it also worked on him cognitively so that he started to believe that he didn’t have any good ideas because the difficulty of technically being able to make a letter was transferred to a difficulty expressing himself.” “Elementary schools were putting too much emphasis on penmanship in their curriculum and this should be de-emphasized given changes in technology and the idea that this is preparing kids for the future becomes more questionable.”

I would like to share one last idea of her the about the democratization of education: “Moving from handwriting to keyboarding is a good thing, if only because it doesn’t penalize people with poor fine-motor skills or other issues that make it hard to write with a pen and paper. There is truly a democratizing effect in having students move to keyboards. Rather than putting so much effort into handwriting, we’re freed up to concentrate on what matters most — the words and ideas.”

And this brings me back to something Mr. Mercer said during our interview: “What I expect out of my third grade is that they should be able to communicate and get into deeper thoughts processes. Am I going to get more out of a piece of writing if the students are actually thinking about how to make an A or an I?

As an educator, I could not agree more with him. Henry W. Moore, Principal of Robert St. Cyr School also seems to agree. During an interview that appeared in the Goffstown News in September 2015, he said that cursive has never been taught there during his 11-year tenure in Candia and that his school wants students to be able to formulate their thoughts and get ideas out, not to block the thought process.

Really challenging students with the neatness of something, we can get lost in the purpose of the assignment of writing.

After finishing my research I am left with as many questions as I began, different questions nonetheless. I do agree that for now, we should teach both handwriting and typing in our schools. There is no doubt about it. But I also believe that, as in the past, technology and practicality will triumph. This research still has me thinking about many, things for example: To what extent should we believe in scientific data coming from studies sponsored by interested parties or headed by members of associations that may have a clear interest in its outcome? Is handwriting the only way of developing fine motor skills or should we prioritize communication and find other ways to work on the strengths of our fingers? After reading many data on how important it is for the development of the brain to write in cursive over print, what happens to countries like the Dominican Republic where print is not taught or permitted in any school?

Does that make them smarter? And what about countries like Japan where their writing characters cannot be written in cursive? Are they at a disadvantage? Is writing the process of getting ideas out and depositing them in a way that can later be retrieved by someone else or is it the means and artifacts used to achieve this? If I create a story that just sells as an audio book, did I write that story?

Two concepts come to mind when discovering the fanatic’s tone used by many defenders of handwriting and researchers. Metathesiophobia and Technophobia. The first refers to the fear of change and the second to the fear of technology. I can definitely see those two fears working underneath a lot of arguments I have encountered from friends, family, and newspaper columnists.

This would not be the first time humanity is afraid to face the next step and to find as many reasons as possible to keep things the way they are. I would like to finish with some quotes from the past that may illuminate this point:

“The invention of writing would produce forgetfulness and only a semblance of wisdom, but not truth or real judgment.” Socrates “Writing is a step backward from truth”. Plato “The horrible mass of books that keeps growing might lead to a fall back into barbarism.” Gottfried Wilhelm, 1680. Speaking about the invention of the printing press.

“Television won’t be able to hold on to any market it captures after the first six months. People will soon get tired of staring at a plywood box every night.” Daryl Zanuck, 1946. CEO of 20th Century Fox. “There is a world market for about five computers.” Thomas J. Watson, 1943. IBM Chairman and CEO.

P.D: The first draft of this paper was written completely with a speech recognition software.

Bibliography

1. Konnikova, Maria. "What’s Lost as Handwriting Fades." The New York Times. The New York Times, 02 June 2014. Web. 19 July 2016.

2. Klass, Perry. "Why Handwriting Is Still Essential in the Keyboard Age." Well Why Handwriting Is Still Essential in the Keyboard Age Comments. The New York Times, n.d.

Web. 19 July 2016.

3. Sawers, Paul. "The Future of Handwriting." The Next Web RSS. The Next Web Inc., 30 Aug. 2013. Web. 19 July 2016.

4. Turner, Cory. "Does The Fight For A Cursive Comeback Miss The Point?" NPR. NPR, 25 Mar. 2014. Web. 19 July 2016.

5. Dubner, Stephen. "Who Needs Handwriting? ­ Freakonomics." Freakonomics.

Freakonomics, LLC, 10 Feb. 2016. Web. 19 July 2016.

6. Trubek, Anne. "Stop Teaching Handwriting." GOOD Magazine. GOOD Worldwide Inc., 13 Feb. 2008. Web. 19 July 2016.

7. Bond Inc. "Introducing Bond." YouTube. YouTube, 04 Nov. 2014. Web. 19 July 2016.

8. Debs, Howard R. "Is Handwriting Doomed?" Communicators Communications.

Wordpress.com, 29 Oct. 2009. Web. 19 July 2016.

9. Florey, Kitty Burns. Script and Scribble: The Rise and Fall of Handwriting. Brooklyn, NY: Melville House Pub., 2009. Print.

10. Daniels, Peter T., and William Bright. The World's Writing Systems. New York: Oxford UP, 1996. Print.

11. Euronews. "A Sign of the Times: Why Some Schools Are Erasing Cursive Writing ­ Learning World." YouTube. YouTube, 27 Feb. 2015. Web. 19 July 2016.

12. Lamson, Christina, and Andy Mercer. "The Teaching of Writing in New Hampshire Schools."

Personal interview. 13 July 2016.

13. Southall, Alysa. "Is Cursive Still Current." Goffstown News 24 Sept. 2015: 2+. Print.

National Writing Project

In New Hampshire Response Letters to Andy Mercer and James Smith

By

Diómedes Fernández Response to Andy Mercer’s Teacher Lore.

Mr. Mercer, I have heard that kids know everything there is to know in life since they are born and somehow grownups force them to forget the wisdom they bring with them. I believe the power of your piece comes from that innate profound truths that reside in the heart of children. I also believe that working with that particular age group keeps the wrinkles and old age aches of the heart at a distance. This is evident in most of the things you write.

It is very hard to achieve what you have done here. To create something light and deep at the same time. I encourage you to keep writing in your journal, for yourself and for the potential this material has. Believe it or not, one of the best-selling books in the history of the Dominican Republic is a book of anecdotes of an elementary school teacher. I guess it’s the combination of humor, wit and a sense of the unexpected that makes this “genre” so appealing.

The piece really grew from the 1st to the final draft. Elements really came together nicely. I believe quotes are not distracting at all, but on the contrary, they are what give depth to the whole thing. To me it makes a huge difference that they are at the end and not at the beginning of each “story”, almost like you have to work for the deeper meaning that comes as a reward in the end. At the beginning I feel they kind of predispose you on what you might find in there and takes away from the “unexpected factor” that comes with dealing with children.

I also believe that the use of italic letters to signify the change of character between the teacher and the students works very well and provides clarity to the reader, although I would check all of them because I think that in some of them italic is used for students and in some other cases it is used for the teacher. Unless this is intentional I would keep each voice with the same font throughout the piece.

To me it was a nice surprise to find that all the quotes make up a poem at the end. I love the element of surprise, but when I got to the 1st draft and saw that it was both at the end and the beginning, I have to admit that it resonated more with me that way. Having it in both places gives it a circular sense. It starts with a short poem, then the reader discovers where each line comes from and how the teacher uses this small episodes in his life to fuel his soul, and then by the time we read the poem a second time, each of the lines have a completely different meaning accompanied by an emotion and the face of a child.

I love the structure of your lore and the way you mixed quotes, anecdotes and poetry. It is a perfect ying-yang of humor and depth, food for the brain and heart. Thanks for sharing.

Diómedes Fernández

Response to James Smith’s Portfolio

Dear James, I have really enjoyed reviewing your body of work from the 2016 summer Institute. I believe that your presence here – as well as your stories – really expanded and enriched the experience of every participant. I think that you really pushed yourself with the stories you wrote and worked hard from the first draft to the last of each and every one of them. You took feedback really seriously and turned your pieces around, stepping out of your comfort zone.

I remember when you started working on the story “Unbreakable”. To me, it was something completely new to be a part of such an experiment in collaborative writing. Having people from both sides of the Atlantic pitching in ideas and witnessing how you turned them into words that flowed into the page with the same agility with which your characters wielded their swords was mind blowing. The story was full of colors and rich in details. When I read the final draft I felt that something was missing and I could not pinpoint what it was. Then I read the author’s note and immediately understood what you had done. You transformed the piece based on a different audience, went minimalistic but kept the true essence of it. I could only guess how difficult this was for you, but your efforts really paid off. Your characters kept the bravery of warriors and the tenderness of filial love, making it a universal story that any reader can enjoy, not just followers of the genre.

The poems I also loved. The idea of the two sides of the coin – Ego and Id – taking on one subject is very creative and I think it works out perfectly. You could have a whole series of poems having Ego and Id each expressing their particular views on different topics. The structure of two columns and a solid block underneath that supports them is psychologically comforting so I wouldn’t change it. The piece of your (Mis)adventures has changed a lot since your first draft also. I would keep revising it until I get it just right. It has lost some of its comedic appeal with time and somehow I think maybe a line that lets the reader perceive since the beginning that the whole story is going to take place inside the bus could help it, maybe adding a small sense of claustrophobia (just an idea). It works really well now that readers feel they are going around in circles.

This portfolio illustrates really well your versatility. You have a brilliant mind filled with many fascinating worlds, I truly believe that all of us were very fortunate that you have allowed us a window to peek into it during these five weeks of summer.

Thank You! 고맙습니다!

Diómedes Fernández