Mother Haysbert
Tag Archives: Bronx New York
The Bronx Collab
Singing a different Yum for a once Yuck
A few years ago my sister and I harvested bitter melon and we couldn’t wait to bring it home and eat it.
We ignored the word bitter.
It was so bitter we put it in compost and did not harvest anymore. I think we let the rest return to the earth.
This week during PD, I heard some teachers talking about bitter melon as if it was the most wonderful meal they had in a while. I was curious.
Did y’all say bitter melon?
Yes, you had it before?
Yes, from the garden! It was really nasty tho.
Oh, Ms. Hurley, don’t Yuck someone else Yum.
Okay…I am curious thou, are y’all cooking it?
Yes, with salt fish and we eat it with bake.
This morning, Ms. Cheryl, shared some out to the staff – she said she made the bitter melon with salt-fish and her husband made the bake. It was much better than the raw one I picked from the garden.
Pretty Black
Chopped Cheese goes a Long Way
One night during tax season, I had a victorious night serving others. For me, it wasn’t strange. It was humane.
When I got home, I told my sister about my night.
A couple of days later, I told my mentor.
I testified about it in church.
Finally my experience was published in the New York Times:
Chopped Cheese
Dear Diary:
I was on my way to a Jackson Hewitt tax office in the Bronx on a Monday night. I stopped at a Bengali place for dinner. I left with two samosas, plus dinner and lunch for the next day. It was 9 p.m. when I got to the subway station. I looked around and noticed a boy on the platform. He was playing a video game. I opened the container with the samosas, but before I could dip one in sauce, the boy interrupted me.
Excuse me, Miss, he said. Do you have a dollar for water? I’m thirsty.
I put my food away.
Let’s go, I said.
We went downstairs.
Are you hungry? I asked him.
Yes, he said.
We walked to a Jamaican restaurant on the corner known for its jerk chicken, bread fruit and steamed fish.
Please, Miss, the boy asked, can we go to a deli?
We found one nearby. He ordered a chopped cheese and an Arizona iced tea. I paid, and we ran back up to the station. The train pulled in immediately. We got on, and the boy took out the sandwich. I listened as he talked about wanting to be a doctor and ate his chopped cheese.
Stay focused, I began to say. Before I could say more, he hugged me and said good night.
I got off at the next stop and walked into Jackson Hewitt.
You are my last customer, the tax preparer said.
Oh, great, I said. I stopped by a Bengali restaurant to kill time and…
Oh really, he said. What did you get?
When my taxes were done, I left without my curry. I saved my dinner to have for lunch the next day.
— Lystria Hurley
I received many emails from readers who read my story.
One reader wrote:
Hello,
If today’s story is yours, it was beautiful. What a sweet and selfless thing to do! You are such a good and kind person. I’m sure you are a phenomenal teacher. The world needs more people like you.
I searched on the name used in the Metropolitan Diary and found your blog. Again, I was overwhelmed by the beauty of your photography and your subject matter. So brilliant!
Thank you for being you!
Stephanie
Another Reader Wrote:
Dear Ms. Hurley,
I read your piece in the Metropolitan Diary this morning and was so warmed by your thoughtful story and brilliant description of your NYC moment.
Thank you so much for sharing with the world.
Sincerely and gratefully, Jolie
New London, New Hampshire
I heard my pastor once say, when God gives you joy, you take it. So I took those notes and printed them out. Pasting them in my journal.
Today I received a package in the mail. Ms. Jolie of New London, New Hampshire, inquired about my book list for my class and brought three books from my wish list. She sent the books with a note that reads:
Hi!
Dear Ms. Hurley,
Here are the books. I hope you and your students enjoy them.
Best Wishes,
Jolie
What I didn’t know was that Jolie worked at a bookstore and what Jolie didn’t know was I am running a free art and race relations summer camp using my own dollars from the school year for funding. I must say that when you cheerfully give, cheer come back to you.
Thank you Ms. Stephine for your kind words and thank you sincerely, Ms. Jolie
Fourth Grade at the Schomburg
The fourth grade read “The Man who Built a Library” by Carole Boston Weatherford and Eric Velasquez. This gave them insight on historical events and figures such as Benjamin Banneker, Fredrick Douglas and John James Audubon. It also opened them up to a world of history and research.
At the beginning of the year, when educators set a foundation for the rest of the year, is when i introduced the book. During this time, what is said, taught, and done is vital. How it’s said, taught, and done is significant. At the beginning of the book, Schomburg is introduced as a child and eventually he morphs into a man with one main mission and that is to prove that his history, Black history, does exist.
They learned that his books were stored at a research center in the heart of Harlem and are used today by people from all across the globe who are interested in learning about Black history. The Schomburg center is a place of learning and mental growth for all ages.
This will be our last trip class I told them when we finished reading the picture book.
When May came, we took a school bus from the Bronx into Harlem. Reading and reciting Langstong Hughes along the way. Once inside, with a feeling of relief and joy, we started off in the gallery scanning photos taken by Griff Davis. The students knew most of the subjects and looking at images help to give meaning to bigger-than- life figures like Langston Hughes and Dr. King.
The last photo we studied was of Hughes standing amongst students in an auditorium at a school in Georgia.
Through this image they learned of themselves as well as the history of Black Independent schools. They spoke of Thurgood Marshall and the segregation of education.
After the discussion, they were asked to write poetry about Education and what it meant to them. Their work consisted mostly of themes about education and history and society.
The following was written by Zahyra Webley.
The Star in the night
They won’t let my people go to school
I’ll make one.
You won’t make me go to work
I’ll make one.
My people are stars let us be free,
freer than anyone
I will stand up and
do this work for my
PEOPLE!
After hearing them read their poetry, Ms. Hill, the Schomburg’s educational coordinator, lead them through a short libation in the rotunda.
I don’t know what went through their heads knowing that Langston Hughes ashes sat beneath them. They followed her hands as she pointed out the rives that connected us as a people.
She spoke to them about a poem we didn’t cover in class: The Negro Speaks of Rivers
As a close, the students followed her into the auditorium and once situated, they read poetry that they wrote. Some read the poem they worked on in class while others read poetry they wrote in the gallery while looking at the photo of Langston Hughes. One student read of her crush in a whispered giggle that sent off glances through out the room while another read Paul Laurence Dunbar’s “Merry Autumn”. But for the most part all of them read their work.
When I checked their evaluation forms for the trip this is what some of them said:
Nia
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Happy Birthday Thembi!
Happy Birthday to one of my dearest friends and business partner, Thembi.
Once upon a time I taught in a small, tiny classroom in the right wing of the school. Lockers and children crowed the hallways. Parents pushed their contemporary strollers pass my room to the kindergarten and preschool rooms. My room was filled with third graders who rightfully considered themselves older than the young, excited children who looked at my third graders with wonder and respect.
Those hallways took a while to resume to tranquility. There was never a dull moment. All who walked pass wanted to go to the third grade and those in the third grade were popular and most happy.
I was happy too. Young and excited every day about teaching. I taught my children how to bake homemade biscuits and hung their hand made piñatas in the classroom. Their plants sat on each window sill and we read every book we could get our hands on about our history.
Eventually, in that room, walked in classmates from Thembi’s youngest daughter’s class. They all stopped by for a high five. Pretty soon, everyone was slapping fives and when parents would come they had to stop by to slap a five with Ms. Hurley and this is how I eventually met Thembi. By children slapping fives.
Coconut and Sugar Cane
No Snowflake is Alike
I walked into Second Grade after they had art and some children were in a disarray because their snowflakes did not come out as perfect as their friends.
Everyone, put your snowflake on the floor in the center of the room, I said sternly over the constant arguing.
The children got up and placed their paper on the floor.
Stand right here. Don’t move.
Come, you too, put yours here.
I don’t have one.
Why?
I messed up and threw it away.
Well, stand here too. Everyone, come join this very cold circle of snowflakes.
What do you see?
Snowflakes.
What else?
White.
Continue second grade.
Shapes! Diamonds! Triangles!
Anything else? Because I see a lot here. I see winter. chimneys. hot cocoa. marshmallows…
Ohhh, yeah! Meeee too Ms. Hurley! I see presents and a Christmas Tree.
Aww, and what do you see?
I see family and a lot of snowball fights….
Yes. Second grade. So we all can look at these snowflakes and see differently. They all look different because that is how it really looks in real life- different. And that’s how you are made, different. If everyone snowflake looked the same and everyone looked the same would we be truly living? What matters the most is we are created in this way and we bring our differences to the snowflake pile and appreciate them. Those of you who didn’t make one, even you were able to bring yourself and enjoy the snow with us. Next time though, don’t throw it away. Love it because it looks and is different.
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