BH 16: The learning annexes
A revelation in the pool + one in the classroom + one on the court
This weekend in a suburban LA pool, my friend Joya disabused me of a long-held notion.
Deep down, I had believed I could not float on water, on account of my African body. It’s insane racism, I know, but Black people in America have trauma issues with swimming. At least I’m not afraid of swimming pools, like most of my kinfolk. That freedom is mine.
I just never believed in myself enough to learn floating. More precisely, no one taught me to float.
On Saturday afternoon though? Joya stood in the shallow end and acted out the movements of floating. Then she supported my back and legs while I let my neck and shoulders relax backwards. By the third try my Black body was floating atop the water, however awkwardly. I entered the pool again on Sunday, just to explore more floating.
by Jo Naylor
Like an otter, I would revel, one day out from a simple and rewarding lesson.
At work, some of the kids get hollered at during their after-school activities, by tutor types who aren’t especially masculine. A lot of the older boys completely disregard this yelling. My fifth graders do not disregard my yelling.
There’s a voice, one I used in my long-lost weekend child visits. It’s sound is frustrated father, plus 400 years of societal oppression. Sonorous af. And sometimes I flash the Dad-plus voice at disruptive students, to keep them in check. And flashes have almost been enough, so far.
Meanwhile, not using profanity remains a small challenge. Late one recent afternoon I nearly said hell—as in “hellllll no”—at the same time that an adult sibling walked in to pick up a student.
One of my kids shouted, “Mr. Alexander almost said a bad word!”
My favorite Three Times Dope song isn’t streaming
Here is where the big brother stepped in and intercepted the tattletale language. His little sister gathered her things and on their way out he shouted back over his shoulder:
“Almost cussing is not cussing!”
A sublime point. If I can figure how to pull it off, I might just almost cuss all day.
My gig is to explain to the the eleven year-old boy who’s being exposed to Gen Z icon Andrew Tate that the guy is a 20th-century relic that they have no use for. As after-school activities director, I introduce basic critical thinking. My job also is to instill an interest in books, no matter how disinterested they think they are in the medium.
In every way that’s possible, emphasize storytelling, I try to go there.
Central Library, Downtown Los Angeles
We play Crazy 8s and Speed a bunch, to organize their thoughts and plant the seeds of strategic thinking. (Remember how challenging it was to deal cards when your little hands were first learning to cut them. Never mind shuffling them.) A handful of little hoopers are catching the basketball bug just in time for Lakers preseason. Playground team play ought to improve dramatically through the winter, especially with the catnip draw of Bronny and his Space Jam dad.
And I realized that my jumper will clang off the front of the rim less if I drop another 10 pounds. Something to shoot for, to shoot better. By May, when my time at this gig is ending, I want to be there, right around 179-175 pounds. My legs will thank me, my future hoops teammates will thank me.
The great secret about my day gig is that it teaches me something new every day.
This is my third job
I work at the elementary school, but sometimes I freelance as a writer and reporter. Just last week I picked up a quick hundred bucks by being a hired gun for four hours. Then there’s West Coast Sojourn, my baby. It’s not paying a whole lot yet, but so many smart people read my posts that I’m faithful the right celebrated reader will eventually recommend it.
It's my belief that our swim trauma comes from the collective memory of our trip over to America. So many of us did not make it and were fed to the sea.