My piece for The Trumpet(issue 18)

Puberty and the Gospel

Ben Pah

In 6th grade, Mr. Grundy brought all the boys in one classroom, rolled out the TV/VHS cart, and showed us a video about bodies and babies.  It's a weird moment when you've been filled in on a worldwide secret.  I knew things were going to be different from then and I started to wonder.  How did I not know till now? Then what were the girls watching? So that explains all these changes I'm feeling.  And that's why my older sister uses code words around me.  

Weirdly enough, this is how I felt when Jesus finally revealed the Gospel to me after 24 years of pedestrian church life.  Everything started making sense afterwards.  All my failures trying to be a good Christian, all my concerns about the future... I was living without the power of the Gospel.  Young kids don’t understand how they were created or the bodies they live in.  As a young Christian, I didn’t understand how I was saved or the power that I had access to.

How did I go on so many mission trips and retreats and never get it? I had heard it everywhere, even taught it to others. I knew God made me and that Jesus died for me. But it turns out that the Gospel is a gift you receive and not a lesson you master. I got my first taste one night during India missions under the covers of my bed. A conversation between me and Jesus. He said…

You're a sinner.

I know...

I love you.

I know...

But you're a sinner, no matter how good you are.

Oh...

And I love you, no matter how bad you are.

Oh...

You can't lose your salvation. My love is bigger than your sins.

When Christ's love hits you, that's it. You don't know what's going on. It blitzes from every angle and disarms you of every layer.  It hurts to see your sin but His embrace is warm and all is right in His hands.  He's healing you in places that you didn't know were broken. You have no idea what to do so you beg Him to take control. You don’t know how you got here--in the thick of God’s bosom--but you decide you never want to leave. I went to sleep that night exposed to my lack of faith, liberated by His love, and terrified I would forget it all.

Throughout the rest of the trip, God started showing me things.  He showed me the Cross. And the Blood. And the Resurrection. I didn’t fully understand them but with each one He affirmed to me, “I love you. I love you.”  I realized it’s the same love He has for the orphans of Tenali and the nation of India. The same love He has for my coworkers and students. I still had questions but I returned to New Jersey with the knowledge that the Gospel was the answer to all of them. I was filled but hungry for the lifelong challenge of receiving more of the Gospel. 

Commencement

Class of 2012. They are the first graduating class of the new BLS, the first group I ever taught, and for many of them, the first person to graduate from their family.  Graduation is different in Brooklyn. In the suburbs it's supposed to happen, but for us it was only half the grade. 48 students. Several of them didn’t know they would get the remaining credits or test scores until a week before. Many of them have no pressure or support from family to attend college. And others simply don’t have anyone they call family. A handful of the non-graduating seniors had the heart to come and sit in the Family/Friends section to support their peers in the Reserved section. The separation had begun; they were officially drop-outs. We all held our breath when one of their faces came up in the slideshow presentation. For every senior at graduation, there was one at home taking their mind off of it. It was as much a celebration as it was a vigil.   

I wonder if other teachers experience as much regret during the ceremonies… was I the first teacher to have a mini-meltdown as diplomas were distributed? As each name was called I thought, ‘shit, there goes another one.’  Under each gown was a personality that I didn’t get to know well enough. Conversations that I never had. It’s like they were walking across the stage, right out of my life. Why didn’t I love them more? Or ask about their lives more? Why did I spend all my time on my passing rates, my curriculum, and my classroom management? These were real people with unique experiences and I let them slip right through my hands, by reducing them to a statistic. Growing restless, I circled the names of the 48 students. I wrote a self-reminder: Loving students > raising test scores. I can’t help but wonder if the only chance that they had to hear the Gospel was during their junior year through their rowdy English teacher.  And he blew it. Thank God, His Kingdom doesn’t depend on my faithfulness.

As so often is the case, I ended up learning so much more from my students than they probably learned from me. Our Valedictorian, Tristin, is your average bookworm.  Alarmingly quiet, disciplined, and kind.  He has this thin-lipped, no-teeth-showing smile. The few times we heard from him, he always spoke standard English without the faintest accent. But as he adjusted the mic before his speech, he yelled, “we made it yall,” in his natural ghetto dialect.  Clearly he had been codeswitching for years. He apologized for his shyness explaining it was because he was too lazy to be social.  He revealed that he never missed school was because he’s too lazy to make up missing work.  He explained that he loves Souljah Boy because he’s too lazy to analyze deeper lyrics.  The prodigy workaholic was humanizing himself.  He spoke with so much charisma and humor, that the teachers stared at each other in disbelief wondering how we could have missed this personality for 4 years.  After a few minutes Ms. D whispered, “How is no one recording this?”  When the Distinguished Speaker took the podium afterwards, he simply threw his arms up, shook his head, and said, “what can I say after that?”  Throughout his speech, Tristin referenced each of his 3 "nerdy" best friends, vindicating the teasing they endured for 4 years. Somehow, every single person in that auditorium was encouraged and embarrassed at the same time. Teachers were validated for their hard work but reminded to be open minded about students' potential. Students were inspired but challenged to convert it into action.  And parents… they just cried and cried. tears of joy, regret, and acceptance. 

The crux of Tristin’s speech came when he asked the Principal to do the lastest hip-hop dance called the All-In. After much encouraging applause, Tristin led the audience in a clapping beat, to which he and Mr. Piton danced.  I could never explain the uproar it caused. Tristin returned to the mic and asked, “how many of yall imagined myself or Mr. Piton doin this?  Don’t ever let what other people think of you, limit what you can do.” It was the perfect message to a pack underdogs, taking the next step. I’ve never been more moved by a speech.  When he shook my hand afterwards, I was embarrassed thinking about how I could have helped him more. But Tristin hardly noticed. I guess that was the point of his speech.  Getting people to stop believing in him and start believing in themselves. Ima try to be more personal with my next class, Tristin.   

Open Letters from my 2nd year

Dear reader,
As an English teacher, the most common request I get is from pushy Korean parents asking me to turn their middle schooler into a college-level writer. And this is a problem because when you're in 6th grade you should think and write like a 6th grader.  Unlike other subjects, you can’t cut corners with the writing process through an accelerated program. It has a fragile timetable.  Teaching literary skills to teenagers before they’re mature enough to use them can be dangerous.  I can always tell which students learned to write too early. They litter their ideas with flowery language and manipulate sentence structure. They’re dropping clichés they haven’t experienced yet.  They don't respect the words. It's like a little girl wearing makeup.

Dear parents,
Please stop pushing your kids but pray for them.  Let them play a sport and hang out with friends. Lecture less because kids hate whatever their parents say to do.  They will grow up when you let them make decisions. even bad ones. Also, when you come to a parent-teacher conference… SHUTUP! Stop making excuses for your child and listen. I see your child for 50 minutes everyday in a social setting and I read their opinions of controversial literature. You want to hear what I have to say.

Dear students,
If you're staring at the empty page trying to write your college essay, you're already screwed. The writer's goal is not to use words but rather to be at a loss for them.  Throughout your adolescence, you will experience a handful of pivotal moments if you can stay off Facebook long enough. Don’t miss it.  And when it happens, write it down. If you lead an inspired life, your essay will write itself. If you’re honest with yourself and work hard, God will take your breath away.

Album Review: "Voodoo" D’Angelo

I know. It just sounds like bedroom music. But this album is a virtual reality. For 79 minutes, the biggest dorks can simulate the life of a Black, Soul-prodigy and one of the most misunderstood artists of our time. 

Like so many iconic artists, D’Angelo became famous for a song that was unlike the rest of his body of work. And the misleading thing was his very body, which he trained 3 hours a day in preparation. The video of his first hit, “Untitled (How does it feel)”, features a panoramic view of his naked form. Tight-faced. slick-skinned. sleepy eyes with that sultry gaze. In 2000, as the video spent months on countdown shows, D’Angelo–against his own will–began to be portrayed as a sex-symbol. His carefully crafted sets were interrupted by rowdy female fans barking for his clothes. The introverted artist couldn’t handle it. He canceled shows, denied all interviews and with 2 Grammys under his belt, D’Angelo went on an album-drought for 12 years and counting. 12 years of mug-shots and rumored appearances. The Black Eyed Peas released 5 albums during this time. Clinton was President since we’ve last heard from our hero.

Appropriately, Voodoo seems to conjure Soul spirits for inspiration. D’Angelo recorded in Marvin Gaye’s studio, mixed on Hendrix’s board, and played Stevie Wonder’s rhodes. Like his video, his music feels naked. Stripped of distortion effects and production sounds, almost every song is recorded live on its first take.  In “Feel Like Making Love”, the lazy bass flirts with the rhythm, throbbing like a heartbeat. On “Africa”, his keyboard notes drip like trebled rain surrounding the track. “One Mo Gin” shows his masterful vocal layering through dissonant intervals and feathery vibrato. D'Angelo is almost always harmonizing but he does it without you noticing through his hypnotic melodies. 

In the media, critics labeled him NeoSoul. D'angelo dubs himself as funk.  And while his sound is usually described as ‘smooth’ and ‘chill’, what separates him from easy-listening R&B is the slow, aggressive power of his songs(stemming from his Gospel roots). It's the difference between shy and reserved. Between having nothing to say and simply waiting for the right time to say it. Voodoo's release, 5 years after his debut album, was triggered by the birth of his first son. The whole album seems to be muttered under his breath as if he doesn’t care all that much if you hear him.  In fact, he might not even notice you’re there. Imagining him in the studio before his producers, I always got the sense that D’Angelo was singing to himself. It is a level of smooth that has completely become a lost art. If you’ve read this far, do yourself a favor and listen to these songs and imagine being that comfortable in your own skin. Maybe that’s why he was naked and left it untitled in the first place.

(PS: Let's pray that D'Angelo finds Jesus and returns as the greatest praise leader of all time...)

Tongue

My students are always shocked when I tell them that English is my second language. By now, my Korean is nowhere near as good but it's still the language I think in. My curses and prayers always feel better in Korean. Lately I've been really enjoying my native tongue. I’ve been singing K-pop songs and dropping Hangul in conversations. I’ve even introduced myself as Taeyoung.

Korean is played in short, choppy sounds. If English rolls through its letters, Korean stutter-steps each character. Each vowel is rushed and married to a hard consonant. The cadence fluctuates wildly, jumping up and down; Korean speech can be charted on music staff. And we speak it rapidly, plugging in words to universal sentence structure. Nouns are attached to articles that make sentences easy to anticipate. Korean thoughts flow like mad libs.

But more than anything, it's endearing. with separate conjugations of verbs to show respect. completely different vocabulary when addressing your elder. Whenever I talk to my friend’s parents, meet esteemed speakers, or want to honor my Dad, I’m grateful for the honorific style of Korean. Ironically, there’s something self-empowering about submitting to others.

I used to be embarrassed to answer my mom’s phone calls around American friends. Meanwhile, my Latino students flaunt their Spanish like a rare talent, seamlessly code-switching when they address each other. Maybe I’m getting bored with English. or embracing my roots. But when I speak Korean, it feels familiar and natural. It fits the length of my tongue and the shape of my lips. It makes me wanna improve my Korean. Maybe even live there for a little. I want to understand my mom’s articles in the church newsletter. I want to communicate closely with my wife’s parents. I want my kids to speak Korean as their first language. As cultures change and parents pass, the language might be the only thing that remains.

Lady

The other day I overheard my 11 year old sister on the phone with my 27 year old sister. She's been married for a while living in NC. It's sad to think that Sarah, who changed Erin's diapers and warmed her bottles, now watches Erin grow up through Facebook pictures. I couldn't really hear what they were saying but I heard a comfort in Erin's voice that I had never really heard before. It made me wonder how Erin would be different had Sarah remained in her life. I never considered that there might be some things that I couldn’t provide for Erin, myself.

There's something different about a woman's presence. The female perspective is warm yet firm. Wise. When I talk to some of them, they place their hands on their folded legs. They listen and nod with squinted eyes of empathy. They retort calmly, pinching strands of hair behind their ear. Their gentle prodding coaxes me into my best behavior.

For the first time, I'm enjoying a handful of meaningful yet platonic relationships with different ladies in my life. One’s a married deaconess from church. Another led our team in India. M teaches History at my school. Y's a paralegal in the city. Phd students. Nutrition bloggers. Adopting mothers. There is something timelessly fascinating about the female psyche. I'm forever a fan. Partly because it's the one thing I can never fully understand, but really because of the woman's uncanny ability to comfort and empower. Somehow, at the same time.

Maybe it has something to do with child bearing. That God designed women with an innate gift of powerful love. This year, two of my juniors conceived children. Three of my seniors currently raise infants. It’s interesting when these girls come back from pregnancy. They come back with a solemn maturity. They work efficiently, with a chip on their shoulder. They study silently, indifferent to the gossip. They smile, but not in the same way. Sometimes during my lessons, I make eye contact with her and wonder how many hours of sleep she got. I try to give my most reassuring look because I'm familiar with the heavy brow of a single mother. I know in that moment, I’m witnessing the transition from girl to woman.

The biggest influences in my life have one thing in common. They truly believed in me, when it made no sense. They gave me the benefit of the doubt, when I didn't deserve it. More than anything, I was driven by the fear of disappointing them. I started becoming the person they thought I was.

my piece from "The Trumpet" (vol 15).

Tenali, India

During my two weeks in India, I spent a lot of time with children from different villages. For the most part, children are the same wherever you go–including the kids from Pastor Rufus’ orphanage. There were 40 of them, ages 5-12. And because they grew up together, I’m not sure how many of them actually knew they were orphans. During praise, they would sing and dance. During games, they would laugh and smile. But on the last night as we prayed over them, they began to cry. This was not the innocent, childhood bawling but a deeper, aching groan. Perhaps for the first time, they could sense that something was off in their lives. I held one boy named Heart as he sobbed into my chest with his arms around my waist. It was the unique posture of a child longing for his parents. The deep pain of missing something he doesn’t remember. As I prayed I cried out, “God, why is this happening? What is Your purpose?”

He assured me that He loves them very much and that He would be their father. So God let him cry, like He always does. He let the pain sink in. It was the hollowing of this orphan’s heart, to make space for Himself. I glimpsed the future of the Gospel in India that night. Leaders were being shaped in that very room. As I held Heart, I saw that he and I weren't that different. At the end of the day we are all spiritual orphans, separated from our Father in Heaven. Nostalgic for the eternity we haven’t yet experienced.

Dry Cleaners Ministry

Mom: You lost weight. Is everything okay?
Customer 1: My roommate is recovering from cancer.
Mom: What is her name? I will pray to Jesus for her.

Customer 2: How is Erin?
Mom: She has volleyball tryouts today. She asked me to pray in Jesus name.
Customer 2: I'll pray for her also.

Customer 3: Where is Ben?
Mom: He's in India.
Customer 3: Why?
Mom: Jesus sent him.

Damn mom... How you have so much swag?

Rookie Reflections

That was fun. Let's do it again!

Gut

Sometimes during college, my roommates and I would start craving a certain taste but we couldn't quite put a finger on what it was. So we would start bouncing ideas off each other through process of elimination. "Asian or American? Hot or cold?" Some days we would discover that we had wanted Halal cart all along. Other times, we would settle for Subway. One thing's for sure though, when you finally get it, it totally hits the spot.

It's funny because we would just be flipping through menus looking for something to tip us off. So often, we don't know what we want but we'll know it if we see it. It's the same reason my students prefer true or false questions to essay assignments. We can identify yes or no but struggle when asked to explain why.

Sometimes our gut can sense things before our minds can understand them. I'm convinced that girls who know nothing about basketball can recognize Michael Jordan's dominance during a game. Tone-deaf boys can still appreciate the sheer power of Whitney's voice. Even total strangers pick out their soulmates on the first encounter. It's the smell of passion and its truth can't be denied.

Thinking : Action

If you work out regularly, you know the therapy of a steady bench press. push. breathe. push. breathe. The cleansing sweat of a rhythmic jog. left. right. left. right. Sometimes, we need to channel our most carnal instincts just to feel human again.

More and more, I'm beginning to think that human beings were designed to work. move. toil. During my 11 day vacation, nothing was more dangerous than being idle. When our "thinking to action ratio" is too high, we become petty and dramatic. Delusional and complacent. I started thinking myself into ruts.

Personally, I really miss--and even need--the daily grind again. There's something sexy about 6 am. Refreshing about a full day's schedule. And nothing is more satisfying than loosening my tie at the end of the day.

Furthermore, repetition and exhaustion can really arouse the imagination. The best ideas have a way of falling into our lap when we're least looking for them. when we're buried at work. So many artists become out of touch over time, because they quit the day jobs that helped them write their best songs. They lose the tension of everyday experiences that once triggered their creative juices.

So Kanye, when you're done with your dark, twisted fantasy, I'll be at the gym waiting for the guy that wrote "Roses". Do you even remember why you rap anymore? Just think of that cheeky kid with the backpack. Hip Hop needs you and I miss you.

Werd

you'll see Him one day.
I just hope that I'm the one to show you.

Self-Assessment

Teacher: Ha
Subject: 11th English Language Arts
Term: 2010-2011

Classroom Management: B
Curriculum Building: B+
Faculty Rapport: A-
Student Relationships: A
Differentiation: C+
Representing Christ at work: F

Curves

I have this theory that the best Spanish teachers aren't actually Hispanic. In fact, they're anything but. They are non-native speakers, who actively learned it as a second language. They still remember what it's like to struggle: the hardest conjugation rules, the toughest vocab, and the most helpful mnemonics. It's hard to be a good teacher, if you've never been a bad student.

See, you have to think that the best personal trainers used to be overweight with slow metabolism. the guys that really earn their fitness, everyday. In my experience, the most gracious pastors were once the deepest sinners. The most broken youth grow up to be the best presidents.

It's like... your worst subject in middle school ends up being your major in college. As a kid, writing gave me so much anxiety, not just because I was bad but because I knew I could be better. The potential of our passions is frustrating but learning curves make the growing pains worth it.

Will Smith--one of the hardest working actors--said he still wakes up every morning with a poor man's mindset. That seems to be the secret. Remembering your lowest times as a point of reference. Writing your autobiography as you live it.

Irony

"In the ghettos, kids kill each other. In the suburbs, kids kill themselves."
-PJae

Gospel

Jesus loves me. This I know,
for the Bible tells me so.
Little ones to Him belong;
they are weak, but he is strong.

Oriental

Student: Mista, how come Asians are smarter?
Teacher: Not true.

Student: What's the secret?
Teacher: Have you ever seen Panda King close?
Student: No.

Teacher: How about the Asian laundromat?
Student: No.

Teacher: You ever see Mr. Ha absent?
Student: ...see you tomorrow.

Project Intervention

Because so many of our 11th graders are underperforming and at risk of failing out, BLS staff conducted a Mock Commencement to show how less than 15% of them are on pace to graduate. This is the speech I delivered before the student body to improve attendance and raise urgency.

Good afternoon Juniors. You know, I fell in love for the first time my junior year of high school. And you know how you can tell? There are two signs of true love, so ladies if you don’t see these things then it’s not the real deal. The first is that when I’m with her, nothing. else. matters. It doesn’t matter if my friends are playing ball, my mom is calling my phone, or if I’m really hungry… she has my full, undivided attention. The second is that before I go to sleep, the only question on my mind is, 'Am i going to see her tomorrow?' I needed to see her everyday. Period.

So with my life revolving around this one girl, you can kind of imagine what my grades were like. I sucked at school. I was in the bottom half of my class. I got caught for cheating. So I know what it’s like when teachers shake their heads at you saying, “You need to try harder.” When your mom is pleading, “Don’t you care about your future??”

And one day I just exploded, “YOU HAVE NO IDEA that I stay up till 2 am every night, wishing I could be better! Stressing about my future! I want to be so successful, Mom, so you never have to work another 13 hour day! I want to become a man that my girlfriend admires, not consoles. I want to stick it to every racist that ever called me chink. I want to be better... I just don't know where to start.”

That night I cried for 2 hours. You see, I wasn’t a bad kid. I had mature feelings. Strong commitment. It was just to the wrong things. Don’t you feel like you’re being misunderstood? That the person you want to become is not how you’re seen? That your transcript doesn’t reflect your true ability? No wonder you hate coming to school. You’re not bad kids and you don't deserve to feel this way. We can turn this around but it has to be now. And it has to be completely different. It’s time to treat school like we do our lovers. By needing to be here everyday. And giving your full, undivided attention.

Note to Self

Less acting, more action.

VIP

"My Grandparents always made me feel I was the most important person in the world. Most children will make it if they have just one person who makes them feel that way.” -William Jefferson Clinton

You know, Clinton was never a teacher but in his autobiography he carves out the core of Education. Recently, I've rediscovered the secret to teaching in its simplest form. Caring. Simply... caring. till it hurts. It’s sad because after 4 years of Education Theory classes, "Believing in Students" has almost become cliche... and even worse, underrated. It wasn't about till my second month of school that I even realized I wasn't really committing to my kids. Eventually, I had to stop trying so hard to become a good teacher because it was getting in the way of helping my students grow. There's a huge difference between, "How can I be better?" and, "What do they need?"

I started investing in my students personally. emotionally. financially. I would think about them constantly... during the weekends. I started seeing their faces everywhere. The first image as soon as I wake up. Last thought before I fall sleep. I was lesson planning in the shower. Reciting motivational speeches in the car. My day started and ended in room 205 of the 11th grade wing. And slowly, things began to change. When I lectured, she would listen. When I questioned, he would answer. They could see it in my eyes.

My students began to really respond to me when I started becoming personally destroyed by their failures. When I'm genuinely hurt that they cut my class. Extremely disappointed when they miss homework. My commitment laid the foundation for my discipline. My yelling and screaming that they refer to as "Super Saiyan". I've earned the right. But my heart had to break for theirs to move.

At the peak of my "Denzel" swagger, I sound like this:

"No. That's NOT good enough. Yes. You ARE smart. And NOT later. Right now. We're going to finish and we're not leaving this room until we do."

Then, he hangs his head and starts to scribble in his notebook. And in that moment, he is the most important person in the world.