A Greene Goodbye: Vol. II, Issue 2 (November 2014)

I visited Teachers College as aprospective student duringFebruary of 2013.

Before I arrived, I decided thebest way for me to get to know thecollege would be to talk to asmany faculty members from myprogram as I could. I found a listof those involved with thePhilosophy and Educationprogram online and emailed themall.

Included in that list wasMaxine Greene, a woman I’dnever heard of before.

In the email, I said I’d be inNew York for a few days, trying toget a sense of the program, andthat I’d love to chat if she hadtime. Maxine’s assistant emailedme back the next day, sayingMaxine would be happy to meetwith me. I thought not much of it,jotted the meeting down in myplanner, and continued my day.

TC PUBLIC SPACECommunity throughdialogue, discussion,

and dissent.

Volume II, Issue 2 Wednesday, November, 19, 2014

A Greene Goodbye

I am, admittedly, unqualified towrite this. I barely knew MaxineGreene. For the most part, she wasa name to me — as the semesterunfolded, and I got to know her alittle she became a face and abody, a woman in a wheelchair,bright pink lipstick, large, plasticrimmed glasses, a straw, an 8-ounce Poland Springs water bottle,and, perhaps most significantlyand convincingly, she becamewhat everybody said she used tobe.

By the time my life’s pathcrossed with Maxine’s, she wasmerely a nonagenarian copingwith mundane challenges— putting on clothes in themorning, bathing, applyingmakeup and consuming food. Shewas almost 60 years my senior— achild of the First World War. Theworld of today must have seemedalmost science fiction to theBrooklyn girl who was born onmy mother-in-law’s birthday, twodays before Christmas.

IN MEMORIAM

AFTERNOONSWITH MAXINE

Continued on Page 4

How wonderful to be conjuringonce more our dazzling andmatchless Maxine, our dear, sweetfriend, our teacher—the finest anyof us could hope for—who alwaysfound new and surprising ways tonourish each of us andsimultaneously to challenge uswith a simple word or a singlegesture. She was our inspiration;she is our treasure still.

Maxine would have loved this—all of us gathered together atTeachers College in a kind ofintentional if transient community,and she would have loved—particularly—that she had, asshe might have put it, "just a littleto do" with our being here. But shewould have been slightlyembarrassed as well, and a bitambivalent—"unwarranted praise,"she might call it, and she wouldcertainly resist any attempt tosuspend her in amber—even now—or to pin her to a board like abutterfly.

She wanted no pedestal. I’vebeen in situations with her morethan once—when she wasyounger, yes, but accelerating withage—where the admirationbecame too thick for her, and theaccolades too sticky, and shewould turn to me and whisperurgently, "Get me out of here!"She was allergic to sainthood.

"I am what I am not yet" shereminded us again and again.

She saw herself—and each ofus—as an unruly spark ofmeaning-making energy embarkedon a voyage of discovery andsurprise, thrust into a going worldwithout guarantees, destined tohave her blooming in the noise ofthe whirlwind.

"I’m more than my statisticalprofile," she said, "and I won’t besummed up, once and for all."True even now.

There was a disarming modestyin her. "I’m a person stumblingaround with questions," she said ofherself, "questions that continuallyarise…questions leading to partialanswers and then opening to morequestions."

Coming from the stage whereshe’d just presented on a panelwith Paulo Freire many yearsago... Continued on Page 3

Bill Ayers

MAXINE'S LASTCLASS

AdamWolfsdorf, PhD Candidate.Coordinator, INSTEP. Adjunct Instructor.

I would learn all of this later,not because I was supposed toknow it, but because Imiraculously happened to be in theright place at the right time. Ihappened to be one of the luckytwenty who had had the privilegeof taking Maxine’s last class.

At the beginning of the SpringSemester, my advisor, SheridanBlau, had urged me to take thecourse: "This may be the last time

she ever teaches," Sheridan hadsaid. "She’s 96, if I’m notmistaken. You never knowwhether this’ll be the end." I hadlistened to Dr. Blau and registeredin the middle of January with thepermission of Daiyu Suzuki,Maxine’s instructional assistantand the man who would in fact doalmost all of the teaching for thesemester.

Maxine was not well. She hadnot yet contracted the pneumoniathat would bring about her end, butthe signs of infirmity and

"There are no final words, butonly questions."

– Maxine Greene, May 6, 2014

Beatriz Albuquerque, TCPS

visible fragility had been workingon Maxine for years. Ninety-six isfar longer than I imagine I willlive. I’m not even convinced thatI’d want to keep going that long if Ihad the choice. But Maxine was afighter. I didn’t know much abouther, but I knew that. She’d keep atit to the bitter end. Maxine died onMay 29th. She taught us on May6th.

Throughout the course of thesemester, Maxine spoke to usperhaps 5-10 minutes each classperiod. The rest of the 90 minuteclass period tended to be eitherstudent run or directed by Daiyu.When Maxine did speak, usuallyprompted by Daiyu or by astudent’s direct question, she’doften shake her head a little whileprepping her speech. Sometimesshe needed to take a sip of waterbecause her mouth was dry, and sheoften prefaced her statements byremarking on “how horrible” hervoice must sound. None of usnoticed or agreed. In a way, it wassimply a pleasure to hear Maxinespeak. She’d often pull up herarthritic fingers and tilt her chinup...

Continued on Page 2

Paula Davis, TCPS

These remarks were shared at TeachersCollege's Maxine Greene MemorialCelebration on Monday, October 6th.

AFTERNOONS WITH MAXINE

ART SPOTLIGHT: FLORAL CONCERTO-RELEASING THE IMAGINATION

talked about our class and art andthe fountain in the Jackie Onassisreservoir outside her window. Ileft Maxine’s apartment soexcited, smiling like a fool. I hadfound a truly inspiring person. Icouldn’t wait to tell everyone howgreat she was.

The next week, I invited acolleague, another student in thephilosophy and education programwho had become my friend. Hewas equally impressed by Maxine.We talked and laughed together,and admired the view from herwindow. We brought issues to herwe’d come upon in our readings inother classes, questions or qualmsthat sprung from interactions withother students or teachers, orstories we’d heard and thought shemight appreciate.

Visiting Maxine became aweekly routine.

In the spring, we decided toturn our weekly meetings into anindependent study. We selectedbooks to read together and to talkabout. We read Billy Budd, TheTrial, Cat’s Cradle, Transatlantic,and more.

We’d talk about the books, butas we spoke, it was clear that whatwas really impressive aboutMaxine was that she lived whatshe wrote.

She mentioned to us early onher aspiration to "do philosophy,not just to read or to write it. Shedid philosophy. And she lived herexpressed values. She shook us,kept us in wide-awakeness withher questions and commentary onbeing alive. She invited us into her

TC PUBLIC SPACE

Continued from Page 1

The book is also in the photographwith Dr. Sullivan’s book since theyenlightened me with similar ideas.

The photograph’s exposure was 10days. I constantly opened the shutter ofmy camera for 10 days to record thelifespan of the flower.

My long-term exposure photographyexplores the philosophical ideas of timeand ways of seeing throughphotography.

From the bottom of my heart, I wishthis photograph could share mygratitude and love to Dr. Greene withothers like me who got enlightenmentand love from her.

My mom decided to make thetrip with me, from Denver to NewYork, to visit her old stompinggrounds from her graduate schooldays at Bank Street College ofEducation. When I mentioned toher I’d be meeting with MaxineGreene, she was pretty surprised.Then I learned who Maxine was.

If I’d known who Maxine was,I might not have emailed her. Imay have been too daunted by herrelative fame. Instead, I was lucky.I met her at her apartment thatFebruary, and we talked abouteducation and school, TeachersCollege, New York and the treesoutside her window. We talkedabout Moby Dick and about herparents, her time at Barnard andher thoughts on philosophy. I feltso welcomed and respected. It waseasy, talking to Maxine. Despitethe fact that we had only spokenonce, one small chance encounter,Maxine contributed largely to mydecision to come to TeachersCollege.

When I got to TC thatfollowing fall, I enrolled inMaxine’s class, "Aesthetics andEducation." After the first day ofclass, I approached Maxine andsaid some version of, “Youprobably don’t remember me, butI came and spoke with you inFebruary?" She said, yes, ofcourse, and invited me for tea. Ittook a couple weeks to arrange,but I returned to Maxine’sapartment for conversation andcompany.

Again, Maxine asked mequestions about myself and we

I was Dr. Greene’s student and I havebeen inspired by her enormously. Dr.Greene also was a great mentor of myart practice and research.

She appreciated my long-termexposure photography and held a salonat her foundation specifically for myphotography. I have created one long-term exposure photograph attributed toher, which is entitled:

The title is from one of her books.

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home and her life.Maxine was an exemplary

teacher because of these things.Every week we left her apartmentthrilled and energized, and nomatter how long the week hadbeen, how much reading we had,how tired we were, being withMaxine made us sure we weregoing to change the world,confident that we’d be able tomake a real difference.

The year that I got to knowMaxine will always stand out. Iwas impressed and inspired byMaxine. With her, I felt welcomeand safe and smart. I learned atMaxine’s, I had epiphanies, madediscoveries, and frantically

us all feel like her closest friends.She was an amazing and inspiringphilosopher; she wrote well andwe all know that, but she lived ittoo. She did see things as thoughthey could be otherwise, she liveda life that was otherwise, too– how many famous, world-renowned, 95-year-oldphilosophers of education areinviting naïve first year studentsinto their homes for frankconversation?

I share this story because Iknow how many others havesimilar ones. We read stories thataren’t ours because we canconnect with them, because we seeourselves in the characters. I

Jun Gao, TC Doctoral Student

Floral Concerto-Releasing theImagination 2011.6.18-2011.6.28.

"I fell in love at Maxine's and thought about theworld and the people in it and how we should all

treat each other."scribbled down the names ofbooks to read. I fell in love atMaxine’s and thought about theworld and the people in it andhow we should all treat eachother.

I’m not telling this storybecause I think it is unique. I’mtelling this story because I knowthat it’s not unique. Maxine made Thanks a billion, Maxine.

know that the feelings I havewhen remembering Maxine arenot unique to me. I’m sad. I’mawake. I’m determined, inspired,elated, frustrated and in awe. I’mgrateful, and I’m grateful to beamong the many who feelgrateful to have been in Maxine’spresence.

Daiyu SuzukiNO FINAL WORDS

I first came across Maxine’swork in 1996, when I was atColgate University, I read herDialectic of Freedom in a classtitled "Democracy andEducation." It was unlike anykind of writing that I hadexperienced before. It had poems,literature, films and art works... Itwas like reading her life storiesthat weaved

together all the beauties that havetouched her life with educationalthought. Her writing invited meinto her world, and made methink, "I know her."

After Colgate, I stayed in theU.S. to do my masters degree andthen went back to Japan to teach. Ireturned to the U.S. in 2008, thistime to pursue a doctoral degree atTeachers College. I was surprisedto learn that Maxine was stillteaching. Continued on Page 5

"I was so relieved," she told us,and that cracked us up, but it wasso emblematic: insisting on beingreal, flawed and imperfect, awork-in-progress.

That was Maxine in full:bringing her values to life day byday, but always illuminating herown ambivalences and conflicts.Her dialectical mind dazzled usbecause it worked so unabashedlyin contradiction and it worked outloud and in public.

She said in class once,speaking then of the power ofpunk rock, that she thought it wascritical, of course, that weconstruct our taste and values forourselves, our own aestheticawareness, that we choose, forexample, the musical encountersthat move and enlighten us—butthat she hoped secretly we wouldall choose Bach.

Those who cherry-pick fromthe vast expanse of her project—embracing the aesthetic anddiscarding the political, forexample, or reducing her critiqueto a useful formula in this or thatreform battle, or, again, graspingthe radical politics but rejectingthe powerful ways that anengagement with the arts openedfor her angles never before seenand urged voyages not yet taken—will miss the heart of thematter.

IN MEMORIAM

TC PUBLIC SPACE



and it was accompanied by a senseof wonder—taking nothing forgranted, continually astonished atthe beauty, yes, and the ecstasy wemight find around us every day,and also the suffering and theunnecessary pain human beingsvisit upon one another. Always asense of incompleteness, and then,of course, the obligation to act—imperfectly to be sure—onwhatever the known demands.And on and on forever: Open youreyes! Be astonished! Act! Doubt!Repeat for a lifetime.

She urged us to defend theweak, to defy oppressive or evenimperfect authority, to criticizeorthodoxy and dogma, stereotypeand received wisdom of everykind. She invited us to saygoodbye to schooling as an arid,dry, self-referencing and self-satisfied affair, to teaching as amechanical trivial pursuit of theobvious, to deference, didacticism,ego and complacency in aheartless world, to prisons andborder guards and walls—whetherin our own minds or in the lives ofour students, whether in Texas orin Palestine —and to quarantines,deletions, and closures. Goodbyeto all that. She welcomed theunknown, the marvelous, thepoetics of resistance, history, andagency.

Last June, on the day of thefamily funeral for Maxine weattended an informal studentgathering and memorial here atTC, and heard a kaleidoscope ofheart-felt remembrances. A themecircled in and out of theconversation as person afterperson expressed a commonfeeling: Maxine was one of mybest friends. It was unrehearsedand genuine, spontaneous andintimate, and it’s a feeling echoingaround the room today: Maxineand I were definitely best friends.Hundreds, perhaps thousands of usshare that bond, and there’s onemore message here, a lesson in theenormous power—can I say a kindof secular sacredness—to be foundin being fully present, entirely athand with another human being.That was another gift.

Maxine Greene—Presente!

—a talk in which she’dbrought down the house and lefteveryone breathless—she asked,"Did I do alright? Do you thinkthey liked it?" We thought shemust be kidding, and while thiswas characteristically self-mocking, she wasn’t kidding.

Because it was more thanmodesty—she carried her outsiderexperience and history with her aswell: being a woman in a tightlypoliced world of men; growing upin the early last century a Jew, andthen a red. She knew walls andbarriers; she knew something, aswell, of storming the barricades.

She began her introductoryclass by telling students that wewould be "doing philosophytogether"—an odd and attention-grabbing provocation.

She explained that philosophywas once considered "the queen ofthe sciences," but had become, atbest, a queen with a tarnishedcrown, badly askew. That wasOK, she said, because it wasn’troyalty we wanted, but awareness.We would not now bow before thecanon; but, working with all theavailable light we could summon—ideas and texts and the arts, theevents of the world as well as ourown daily encounters—we wouldstruggle to become more aware ofourselves in the world, our inter-subjective predicaments and ourpartial and incompleteunderstandings.

Her teaching had animprovisational feel to it—freshand vital and intimate even as itwas rooted firmly in a coherentground of core beliefs—in partbecause she harvested it from herown lived experience.

One bitter, snowy eveningwe’d been talking abouthomelessness and how theunacceptable was beingtransformed into the expectedright before our eyes, and alsoabout detachment and imposed orwillful blindness: the opposite ofmoral, she argued, was notimmoral, but indifferent. She’dgone home that night and noticeda man she’d seen many timesbefore wrapped in a blanket on abench across from her apartment.She felt compelled to speak tohim, to engage him, and shecrossed over and invited himupstairs for a bowl of soup. Herecoiled from her angrily andsnapped: "What do you want fromme lady? I’m not going with you."

Have a conversation you wouldlike to start? Have a responseto an article here? TCPS isalways open to a variety ofsubmissions. Please [email protected].

The great theme of her life wasthe dialectic of freedom. Therecould be no freedom where theforces pressing down upon us—forces of oppression andexploitation, racism anddiscrimination, pestilence andplague—were seen as natural orgiven; it’s when we look at theworld as if it could be otherwise,when we reach for possibility— engaging both imagination andcritique—that we might open aspace for the pursuit of freedom.

Awareness and wide-awakeness; paying attention—thiswas where it started for her,

MAXINE'S CALL:"WAKE UP!"

Roger Horton

Throughout her professionallife, Maxine asserted that a goal oflearning should be to return to astate of wide-awakeness: a state inwhich all of one’s senses are aliveand alert, tuned into the richcomplexity of the world. Not justin the physical sense that comesnaturally to children, but also in apsychological and philosophicalsense. Wide-awake in the sense ofbeing alert to the many ways inwhich our humanity is expressed oroppressed.

Continued on Page 4

THE FRESTAPriscila Camargo Ramalho,

Brazilian Doctoral Student in theSocial Studies Program

CAPES Foundation FellowTeachers College Former studentin Maxine Greene’s last course,

Spring 2014

Introductory note

This is a short story about fivepatients who meet in the post-anesthesia recovery room. Theydo not talk to each other, butthey all undergo a similarexperience: for a moment, asthey recover their consciousness,they look at their lives as ifthey were strangers. They look athow they engage with the world.They ask questions. They feel adiscomfort. Something does notseem right. And then, in thissublime state, they see a door and afresta. In Portuguese, my motherlanguage, fresta is that smallopening that is left in a door ajar.Here, it is also a glimpse into a newlandscape where someone isplaying a blue guitar to remind usthat things can be otherwise.

The fresta is a short storyinspired by a personalexperience from June 2013, afterI had a surgery to extract acancerous tumor on my neck. Iused to live in Sao Paulo, Brazil,and the hospital was located at theepicenter of a massive street protestthat was part of what becameknown as the "June Manifests."That evening, as I recovered fromthe anesthesia, a violentconfrontation between protestersand the police took place rightoutside my window.

Continued on Page 6

MAXINE'S LASTCLASS

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interesting. There’s somethingabout the fact that Maxine is nothere that almost makes her morepresent. She’s almost more heretoday by not being here." In asense, that was true. Like the greatteachers who had come before her— Plato, Dewey, Morrie— Maxine’s lessons would notfade out with her life, but ratherblaze on, as a living legacy to theprofound and impactfulprofessional work she had done forthe past 75 plus years. Maxinewas with us spiritually on May 13,even while her battle against thepneumonia that would end her lifedeprived us of her physicalpresence on 5th Avenue.

On May 29th shortly after 5pm,the following email presenteditself in bold:


was a short story of sorts. Younever knew when it was going tobegin or how it would end. Whatyou did know was that it wasgenuine— it hadn’t been coated inlayers of Ivy League politicalcorrectness. That’s one thingabout Maxine that was most likelytrue throughout: she was honestypersonified. Maxine had neverchosen to learn how to lie. Andbecause she was so truthful, I feltlike I could be truthful with her aswell. I’ve always wanted to be awriter, and for the classassignments, which were alwaysletters to our instructor that begunwith the words "Dear Maxine," Iwrote and shared short stories thatwere far from "academic." I had asneaking suspicion that she’drather hear my personal truth thanwhatever silvered scholarlyregurgitation I could intellectuallyoffer.

On May 12th, Daiyu sent us allan email, the subject of which read"Maxine is hospitalized." She haddeveloped respiratory pneumoniathe previous Saturday and hadbeen rushed to the ER. Daiyu,who had seen her that day,described her as "weak but okay."He added, "she asked for a book,so it’s a good sign :)"

We didn’t know whetherMaxine would live or die, butDaiyu made it clear that our lastclass would be held withoutMaxine present. We gatheredtogether in the basement of theJewish Museum. People broughtfood, wine— one of ourclassmates brought her children.We sat together and discussed theaesthetic experience.

We participated in a student-lead activity, in which one persondescribed a held object, while theother person drew it based on theirpartner’s description. Some of thestudents got a little tipsy; wereflected; and, invariably, theconversation shifted to a familiartopic— to the woman who was notin fact present at our final class.

It was me who raised his handand said, "you know, it’s

towards the sky. Her eyes wouldnarrow, and she’d begin talking inan accent that pleasantly combinedhumor, Brooklyn, rootedness, andremnants of her sparkling sagacity.Maxine was a rebel— she believedthat the role of the educator was to"wake people up." At thebeginning of the semester whenwe read and discussed AlbertCamus’ The Plague, Maxine wasfixated on society’s slumber— "ina way, we’re all in a plague ofunawareness." I can still hear hervoice now, as it resounded throughthe children’s art room on thefourth floor of the JewishMuseum. Every sentence shespoke



Guys,Maxine passed away this afternoon.She was home, with hospice care.

She was 96.Manana, Maxine’s caregiver, and I

had believed all along that she wouldcome out of this, as she has alwaysdone in the past. We were waiting forthe day she would ask for her lipstick,always a sign of her recovery andwillingness to see her friends andstudents. That day never came, and Iam terribly sorry.

I just thought that I should let youguys know first, before you hear fromthe College. There were times thatwere difficult for her during thesemester, but as her final class, I knowshe enjoyed you guys as she whisperedfrom time to time how it was worth theeffort.

Her words at the end of one classcome to my mind in particular, when Iasked her for her final words:

“There are no final words, but onlyquestions.”

It was from Daiyu, the one amongus who knew her the best. MaxineGreene had passed away, a womanI barely knew, yet somehow hadcome to know quite well recently.I had been fortunate enough tohave been one of the 20 studentsin her last class, and I considermyself the better for it. It hadbeen, indeed, an aestheticexperience. "Dear Maxine," thankyou for that.

MAXINE'S CALL:"WAKE UP!"

If we, as educators, are honestwith ourselves, we might admitthat many of our students today arenot awake to the beauty, the drama,and the complexity of our societiesand our common human heritage.They may have seen glimpses ofthis rich heritage during the courseof their educational careers whenan activity, text or work of artbriefly awoke them to the brilliantkaleidoscope of human expression,achievement, and struggle.However, it was likely only aglimpse before they were forced torefocus on the material needed toprepare for the next assessment.

To use one of Maxine’s favoriteexpressions, many young peopleare "anesthetized" as they passthrough the process of schooling.They are told to focus on theirindividual achievement asmeasured quantitatively in thesespecified disciplines with theresults having a significant bearingon their ability to achieve successin college and life. Within such asystem, there is little or no time fordeep exploration and sustainedreflection on questions such as:What are the purposes ofassessment? What is success?How has the definition of successchanged throughout history?Why? What does success mean toyou?

Maxine believed that wide-awakeness meant always being"alive to the questions." What islost when students do notencounter these questions, or donot even know how to ask suchquestions? Maxine believed thatsomething vital to being human islost when the questions are notasked. Something so vital that shefought for the questions throughouther life, fought to keep them alive.

Maxine stubbornly wanted allof us to be wide-awake. Shewanted students to ask: Is myschooling designed to massproduce graduates or nurture thedevelopment of free-thinkingadults? She saw the arts as anideal vehicle for waking students(and adults) up to such questions.Maxine liked to start her course byhaving students read Camus’ ThePlague. It is a novel that spurs thekind of questions Maxine loved.How do individuals, communities

and societies respond when facedwith disaster, with an existentialthreat? Does extraordinary courageonly arise in the face of anextraordinary threat?

These are timeless questions thatforce the reader to explore what itmeans to be human.

Despite the sobering fact thattoday millions of people arethreatened by an Ebola epidemicthat is every bit as frightening as thebubonic plague was in the MiddleAges, many readers of The Plaguesee its epidemic as an allegory forthreats to humanity. War,inequality, poverty, unsustainableconsumption, environmentaldegradation, and mass incarcerationare just a few current candidates. Toeach, will we respond with denialand evasion of responsibility, orwith courage and solidarity? AsMaxine reminded us, "every day wemust choose."

The citizens in The Plague wereonly able to fight the disease whenthey became fully aware and wideawake to its presence among themand the need for common action.Today we can only begin to confrontour plagues if we are fully awake tothem and can respond together.Within and beyond schools, we mustlook with clear eyes to see theplagues that we have created and toname them. Then, as Maxineadvocated, we must find ways tocreate those spaces where anotherfuture can be imagined and created.Maxine Greene, through the lyricalbeauty of her writing and the powerof her voice, called us to wide-awakeness throughout her life.Today, she calls us to wake up asstrongly as ever.

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NO FINAL WORDSContinued from Page 2

Her class, Education and theAesthetic Experience, was the firstclass I took at TC. It took place onTuesday afternoons, in herapartment by Central Park. Wewould sit around in her living roomand together discussed novels,films, art works, and connected toschools and the broadersociopolitical landscape. It waswonderful, but I stayed quiet in theclass, trying to take it all in,speaking up only in two occasionsthroughout the course.

Now, I did my master inphilosophy of education and, thistime, I was thinking of doingsomething "practical," likeeducation policy. So I went on totake numerous courses in educationpolicy and law. But Maxine’s wordskept coming back, haunting me likeghosts. Among them were "Themost important questions are thosewithout answers," and "Philosophyis something that we do."

So I began to write emails andengage in conversations with her.She began to invite me to herapartment for conversations. And,eventually, she invited me to be herteaching assistant.

When I became her TA, it allbegan to make sense why she wrotethe way she did. In the middle of theconversation, she would suddenlylook outside and be marveled byone particular tree outside herdining window. She would say,"Oh, look at the tree. Look at thecurves and braches. Howwonderful." Or, she would beentertained by the double-deckerbus that pulls outside of her windowand say, "My audience has arrived!"She was the most easily fascinatedperson that I had ever met.

Also, at one point, I saw how shemade an outline of her writing. Yousee, my understanding of outliningis, "Here are the points I would liketo make. One, two, three, and hereis the conclusion." But hers waslike, "OK, Camus’ Plague,Picasso’s 'Guernica,' 'Integrity' byAdrianne Rich, and, yes, TonyMorrison’s Bluest Eyes..." That washow she outlined her thoughts. It allmade sense.

Another thing I can share withyou is Maxine’s final years in theclassroom. Constantly fighting thecurse of being an existentialist—never satisfied, never meaningfulenough, creative enough—Maxinetaught to the very end. She onlymissed two classes this semester,

including the final class, when shebecame sick. I remember how, thatday in the class, there was a strangesense of shared responsibility anddetermination that we can do thiswithout her, we will make herproud. We took it as if Maxine waspreparing us for her departure.

In her final years, she wouldonly speak in a couple of occasionsduring each class, largely becauseit was becoming increasinglydifficult for her to follow large-group discussions. Yet, it wasfascinating to see how studentswould cling onto those few wordsshe would speak, taking notes,nodding, trying to take it all in. Itmade me realize how, at this pointin her life, she was teaching withher presence.

That Maxine came to the class inher wheelchair even on a snowyday,That she engaged in conversationswith them,That she resonated with what theysaid,That she appreciated them comingback to her class every week,That she emphasized again andagain the significance of questionsrather than answers,

That she dedicated her life to thesearch of education for freedom,will, no doubt, have lasting impacton so many of them.

I remember how, at the end ofone class this spring, I asked herfor final words because she hadn’tspoken much. She said,"There are no final words, but onlyquestions."That's how I will forever rememberMaxine.

I’m reminded of how sheexpressed her hopes in herDialectic of Freedom:

"My hope is to reawakenconcern for and belief in a humaneframework for the kinds ofeducation required in atechnological society. It is to recallthose who read to some lostspontaneity, some forgotten hungerfor becoming different, becomingnew. My hope is to remind peopleof what it means to be alive amongothers, to achieve freedom indialogue with others for the sake ofpersonal fulfillment and theemergence of a democracydedicated to life and decency"(1988. p. xii)

Maxine once said: “I don’t wantto save the world. I only want tostart a conversation.”

That, she certainly did.

Daiyu Suzuki June 5, 2014.

MY DEAR MAXINEiCarryYou with meExistentialist friendRole-model leader

humble servant-teachermy dear Maxine

iCarryYou with meSingular resonant voiceGrounded aesthetic sensibilityFascinating authors’ framingsmy dear Maxine

uLiftedMeAlways seeing possibilitiesArticulating complexities

Writing the imaginings ofyour brilliant mind

my dear Maxine

iCarryYou with meKathyrn De Lawter

"The public space . . . isdefined by principles thatenable diverse humanbeings to act in commonand to be recognized forwhat they do."

"1 cannot imagine acoherent sense of purposein education if somethingcommon does not arise ina public space."

"... participatory involvementwith many forms of art canenable us to see more in ourexperiences, to hear more onnormally unheard frequencies, tobecome conscious of what dailyroutines have obscured, whathabit and convention havesuppressed."

"My focal interest is in humanfreedom, in the capacity tosurpass the given and look atthings as if they could beotherwise."

"My hope is to remind people ofwhat it means to be alive amongothers, to achieve freedom indialogue with others for the sakeof personal fulfillment and theemergence of a democracydedicated to life and decency."

"And, indeed, one of theobjectives of this book is toenable the reader to let hisconsciousness take over, toenable him - in the face ofmechanization and controls - tocreate himself as a human being,as a teacher capable of freeingother human beings to choosethemselves."

MAXINEIN HER OWN

WORDS

Public Education and the Public Space, (1982)p.6 and p. 8

Releasing the Imagination (1995), p.123

The Dialectic of Freedom (1988), p.3 and p.xii

Teacher as Stranger (1973), p. 21

"To take a stranger's vantage pointon everyday reality is to lookinquiringly and wonderingly onthe world in which one lives. It islike returning home from a longstay in some other place."

"Wide-awakeness frees us to seemore-- the grass, the trees, the citystreets, the abandoned ones, thehomeless ones, the brokenwindows, the redesigned museum,what is absent, what is realized. Tobe enabled to activate theimagination is to discover not onlypossibility, but to find gaps, theempty spaces that require filling aswe move from the is to the mightbe, to the should be. To release theimagination too is to release thepower of empathy, to becomemore present to those around us,perhaps to care."

"...freedom shows itself or comesinto being when individuals cometogether in a particular way, whenthey are authentically present toone another (without masks,pretenses, badges of office), whenthey have a project they canmutually pursue."

"There are no final words, but onlyquestions."

Teacher as Stranger (1973), p. 267

Imagination and the Healing Arts (2007), p.4

The Dialectic of Freedom (1988), pp.16-17


THE FRESTAContinued from Page 2

The ambiguity between the stillnessof my body and the freedom ofmy thoughts caused me toexperience the discomfort of a"prisoner’s freedom." At the sametime, it placed me in a higher stateof consciousness from where Icould see the fresta.

In the spring of 2014, I sharedmy experience with MaxineGreene after our aesthetics class.She took my hand and told me:"You should write it; write an essayabout it." After I finished mycranberry juice, I left her apartmentand walked along Fifth Avenue,paying close attention to thefaces that crossed my way. Theimage of the hospital insistentlydiverted my mind from the CentralPark background, and I began to seethose anesthetic faces resting in therecovery room, contemplating theirlife stories, and then awakening intotheir new selves. The characters inthis piece were all created on thatinspirational journey back home.

One month later, Maxine passedaway. She never read this story, andstill I felt like I dialogued with herin every line. It is a work-in-progress, for I still intend to furtherdevelop each character. Yet, asMaxine would say, aren’t worksalways unfinished? So I leave itas such, and invite readers topartake in the creation of eachcharacter’s story and to releasetheir imagination to the landscapethat lie on the other side of eachdoor. Look through the fresta, youwill see that the possibilities areinfinite.

...........................

Boom! boom! The sound of theblasts resonates inside my head. Itcomes in the dark, yet it seems soreal. I am choking. As if there was aneedle on my throat. I try to openmy mouth and get some air. It onlygets worse.

The bombs and shooting persist.Now I can also recognize humanvoices in the background. They aremingled together in one coordinatedcry. I cannot understand the words,but the cry is so powerful that itsuddenly blows away the bombsfrom my weary ears.

The image of a big white lightcomes to my mind. "The doctors,the cancer, the surgery... It mustbe over," I think to myself. Imove my arms with surprisingease and touch my throat. Somesort of bandage is covering it; Iguess that is a good sign. I think of

my children and I smile, sothankful for still being here forthem.

But the explosions, the cry;they do not make sense. What isgoing on out there that I amunaware of? I am too drowsyto be tense, but somethingintrigues me, something seems outof place.

Someone touches myforehead. I try to make somesound. A young voice tells me Iam recovering from the anesthesia.

“I cannot breathe,” I try to tellher.

She explains it is normal.They had just taken the tube outof my throat, which causes thediscomfort.

"Where is my husband?" I ask.

"He is waiting for you in theroom. You will be there soon."

"What time is it?"

"11:25 p.m."

"Is that a TV?"

"What?"

"The bombs""Oh, no, I am sorry the

noise is disturbing you. It isthe protests on the street. Thereis a chaos out there; the city lookslike a war."

I guess I am emerging from mylethargic state, as I want to tell herthat no, it is not disturbing me;rather I am actually curiousabout it. My memory draws meto the series of protests that hadtaken place in the city over the lastweeks. They started as a smalldemonstration to defend freepublic transportation but soonembraced other claims related tomobility. I recall my friendspainting their banners while I waswaiting at home, preparing to havea cancerous tumor removed frommy neck.

Today is expected to be ahistorical day, with more than onehundred thousand people on thestreets. The riot police haveannounced that flash bombs andtear gas would be used toprotect "private and stateproperty." And by irony of fatethe clash between protesters andthe police takes place exactly infront of the hospital where Ichose to be operated.

The nurse insists in sayingshe

is sorry for the noise, that thewindows are soundproof, butperhaps not designed for theloudness of the blasts. I pretend Iam asleep, yet, I feel wide-awake. Ithink of the people out there on thestreets, speaking up for their rightsand their aspirations, strugglingagainst the unjust and inhumancity we live in, and trying to opennew paths for a more inclusive,socially just place. This is a causeI have always carried with me. But Iask myself: how far would I go tofight for it? Would I risk my life likethe brave people who keep up theircry even when threatened by thepolice’s repression? Or has myinvolvement always been limited bythe walls of my comfort zone?

I am frustrated to beimmobilized in a hospital bedwhile the crowd is rewritinghistory on the streets. I do notwant to be just a spectator, oreven just a supporter. Socialstruggles do not need cheerleading;they need people down in the field. Iwant to free my throat from allthat is choking it, shout as loudas I can and join the beautifulchorus of the streets.

..........................As I recuperate from the

anesthesia, I see other people inthe room who also seem to bewaking up.

The first person is a tall,brown-haired man, probably inhis forties. He looks healthy, andI wonder what brings him to thehospital. His first word is aquestion: "Where?" It comeswithout a subject or verb, in adesperate tone. "Where? Where?Where?" he asks.

The nurse whispers to him: "Youare in the hospital, recovering from astroke you had this morning at youroffice, but you are totally finenow."

He does not seem to pay anyattention. "Where am I going?"he wonders. And before the nursegives him more clinical details abouthis diagnosis, he asks: "Where is mylife going?"

The man, who seemed to beso invulnerable, begins to cry likea child. In his mind, he sees hisown journey as a movie: thededicated student; the successfulcareer; the brand new house with thetwo brand new SUVs in the garageand all the furnishings his familymay need for their comfort. "Who isdirecting this movie, though? Whatis the title? Why do I feel sodisengaged? How can I rewrite it?"He cannot get these questions out of

his mind...........................

The second patient to awakeis a woman. She washospitalized early in the morningfor a quick aesthetic surgery, butsomething must have gone wrongfor her to still be there at this timeof the evening. With her tannedskin and blushed cheeks, herbeauty is evident even underthe effects of the anesthesia. "Itmust be some sort of permanentmake-up," I think. First she touchesher hair. With her fingers, shecarefully combs it and then shedoes the same with her eyebrow. Icould tell that all she wanted at thatmoment was a mirror.

But since there are no mirrors inthe room, she is left with the optionof admiring her inner self. "What astrange feeling," she thinks. "Whyis it so hard to find beauty thereinside?" She has always been socareful with her body. She goeseveryday to the gym to shape herlegs, she follows a disciplined dietto keep her abs firm, she treats herhair with the most expensiveproducts. She used to be proud ofwhat she called self-esteem. Andnow her pride is dismantled asshe realizes that the essential partof her self has always beenneglected. At the mirror, her imageis now hollow and craving for ahuman soul. It is as meaningless asa fancy vase without a flower."Why has it taken me so long torealize it? How can I still care forthis part of me? How can I actuallyfree my true self ?"

..........................The next patient is a man

with a sad face. There is notrace of smile on his expression.In fact, he looks sad and tenseeven while asleep. He wakes upas if hiccupping, that suddencontraction our breath doeswhen we are scared. The nursegently touches him on his breastand tries to calm him down: "It isok, everything is ok. Youcollapsed last night, but luckilyit was reversible after a smallsurgery on your myocardial," shewhispers. The man lifts uphis right arm and holds thenurse’s hand. I can see anexpression of relief on his face.However, his expression changesabruptly as he opens his eyes. In asudden movement he releases theblack hand of the nurse.

He is troubled. His eyes remainopened, but he cannot see us. Hecan only see the countless black

Continued on Page 8


"SONG OF OTHERS"

Dear Maxine,

For this is my fourth letter writing to you, but unlike previous letters, I thought I'dleave this correspondence brief. The following is a piece of art I chose to put myselfinto, to live within, to interact with and make my own. Here is Walt Whitman's "SongOf Myself," inspired largely by your words and wisdom, gifts that live on within us alleach and every day.

I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice.

The voices that triumph the injustices of those who stand above, and offer amouthpiece to counter offenses of degradation.

Like others, I am an adopted son of Manhattan, though am no stander above menand women, or apart from them.

I will hold a microphone to the lips of those unheard, to the voices drowned out byapathy and indifference.

And when the conquered and slain are no longer able to speak, I will speak in theirplace. I will sing for them not a

song of myself, but a song of others.

For I seek the formation of union, of synergy, a desire for communities which willwork to shape and realize a

better world not only for themselves, but also for those who have had their theirsongs stripped away.

What I believe is in me, as I believe is in all of us, is love. We simply must habitourselves to the dazzle of this light.

I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice.

Here's to your voice Maxine living (and loving) on through us all,

Tim

"Song of Others"

Tim Sullivan

Sohee Koo

MY DEAR MAXINEElizabeth Bishop

Letter dated 9/11/14

Dear Maxine,

I’m writing this to you while listening to a recordingof Radiohead live in Glastonbury 2003. I didn’t knowyou personally and have no idea if you’d like them, butto me they are some of the few musicians who bringthe clarity and power of symphonic orchestration andpost-apocalyptic lyricism to contemporary music. Anaesthetic height you might admire.

I’m choosing to write to you for a few reasons. Ifeel your absence in the halls of TC. I’m grateful foryou. I think about you as a “Light in Dark Times.”When I talk to the people at Lincoln Center Education(the next generation of the Institute you helped tobuild), they never fail to mention you. Your legacyprecedes you. Your reverberations are abundant. Yourreach is felt everywhere.

I read the excellent book "Dear Maxine" inRiverside Park yesterday. Of all the beautiful words onthose pages, it was the imagine of you, slapping BillPinar for not knowing which avenue you lived on inNYC, that lives on in my memory. Humor survives us.Levity is key.

I think we are the same kind of impassioned NewYorker, even though you were born here in Brooklynand I spent my youth in the woods of Connecticut. I’vefound refuge in the city for as long as I can remember,the sad, strange, beautiful music of the street. Thepulse. Artists. Writers. Pain. Healing. Alive.

I am writing to you because I can feel a palpabledearth of belief in the humanizing, transformativecapacity of education some days. There is adisciplining and punishing of learning that is felt acrossall contexts of education. The inspiration your workconjures still exists, but the air is often stifled when oneseeks to stoke the flame of shared passion.

In "Dear Maxine," I read scholars write to you andabout you, about the way that you brought philosophyto life. I wish I knew you. I want to follow in yourfootsteps. You are indeed a grandmother of a socialmovement as Emma Goldman was, and neither of youwere quiet in your refusals. I feel that life force. Thankyou for foregrounding the aesthetic, the art work, theexperience, the feeling, the noticing, the wide-awakeness of conscious life. I know you were rare andI seek such rarity around me. Your words give strengthin moments when little else does. And from strength,hope. And from hope, power and vision. The work isnot done. Not yet.

Elizabeth Bishop


THE FRESTAContinued from Page 6

hands he refused to hold; theblack employees he maltreated;the black candidates he denied;the black neighbors he neverinvited for a tea. He also beginsto see dozens, hundreds of blackhands waving at him: they are thefaces he has always ignored on thestreets, for his eyes were alwayslooking through them, ignoringthem as human fellows.

"I am sorry," he says to thenurse. The apologies do not meanmuch to her, who had associatedhis action to the effects of theanesthesia rather than racism,but they mean a lot to him. For thefirst time he realized how wicked hehad been throughout his life. Hefeels ashamed. "Is there anyhumanity left in my heart? Can Istill nurture it in the time I haveleft?" He takes his hand to hisheart and presses it as if trying tograb something. And the hand staysthere, holding firmly to it.

..........................

The last patient is a womanwith white hair. She does not askquestions; she does not complainof pain. She does not touch herbreast to check how it wasreconstructed after the mastectomy.The only thing she speaks out is aname: "Jonas."

"Jonas, Jonas, Jonas," the womansays.

The nurse comes in: "Yourson is waiting for you outside,my dear. You will be with himsoon."

The woman smiles. Her sonmeans everything to her, andlearning that he is fine is moreimportant than knowing about herown state. However, after staring atthe door for several minutes, shebegins to feel uncomfortable.Since her marriage almost fortyyears ago, she has been sodependent on her husband and onher son that she no longer knowshow to be on her own.

Her thoughts flee back to heryouth, when she travelled the worldfor her job as a photographer. Shehad big dreams. She loved toportrait different peoples in theworld, and she saw her job as acontribution to humanunderstanding and peace building.However, this project wassuspended as she assumed the roleof housewife. Her world becamelimited to her household, and herlife dependent on her husband

and on her only son.Alone in her hospital bed, with

no son and no husband to take careof, she slowly moves fromvulnerability to a state ofempowerment and freedom. Sheloves her family, but she findsadditional love inside her heart.Self-love, love for humanity. "Whyhave I always seen them asexclusive?" she asks herself. "Can’tI care for me and for the world justlike I care for my family?" She seesa door, and a fresta; and she is soeager to look through it.

...........................

The door opens. As the nursepushes my bed towards it, I wonderwhether I will be able to nurturein the outside world the thoughtsthat had accompanied me in thatawakening process. The feeling ofvulnerability that we all silentlyshared in that room deeply touchesour hearts and introduces us to newselves and to a new world. We areable to contemplate our lives from adistance, and from there we see newdoors open to new realities. Theyare just slightly open; in fact, whatwe see is a just a small fresta, aglimpse into a whole new world ofpossibilities.

Being awake and able to see thefresta is of course an essential firstmove. But will each one of us havethe courage and the determination toget to the handle, to fully open it andembark on thesejourneys?

As I check out from the hospital,I ask my husband to let me walk fora bit in the streets. There are notmany people at this early time ofthe morning, but everything seemsso lively to me. I feel connected toeach person who crosses my path,and I feel a sense of belonging tothat place as I had never feltbefore. I want to hold everyone’shand and rewrite with them theworld, as Maxine would put it, "as ifit might be otherwise." The frestais widening, and I am there atthe threshold, full of unfinishedquestions, eager to cross towards the"what if?"

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Disclaimer: TC Public Space is a public forum for theTC community, the contents of which do not necessarilyreflect the opinions of the editorial board or TeachersCollege.

STAFF LISTPaula Davis ............................................................... Editor-in-ChiefMatt Hastings ........................................................... Editor-in-ChiefDerrick Hull ............................................................ Editor-in-ChiefJoe Marinelli ...................................................... Editor-in-TrainingDavid Perrett .............................................................. Layout EditorShannon Duncan .................................... Communications ManagerCatherine Hull .............................................................. Copy EditorShahida Arabi ............................................................... Copy EditorSeungHee Joo ............................................................. Visual EditorBeatriz Dixo Sousa Albuquerque Mendes .................. Visual EditorJulianna 'Charlie' Brown ............................................ Online Editor

Enter Text Here.

Maxine Greene played a crucialrole in the formation of TC PublicSpace. It was conversations withMaxine and later reading herwritings on the possibilities ofpublic space that inspired us tocreate TC Public Space. Thefollowing is an reprint of an articleMaxine co-wrote with us for thefirst issue of this paper.

Maxine Greene, Matt Hastings,Paula Davis

This is not an expert'sdefinition. It is an invitation tolook together and explore whatpublic space can mean for us.

Public space emerges fromrelationships between people whoshare common commitments.Teachers College has enormouspotential for emerging publicspace. It draws together passionate,curious, creative students, teachers,researchers, and leaders allcommitted to social justice, a morevibrant society, and the flourishingof individuals, all through theshared common experience ofschool and education in general.

We come here as strangers to oneanother (and with this comes acertain strange etiquette ofstrangers, to remain unknown toeach other), but we share thesecommitments and from them wecan form relationships with eachother.

To have these relationships is tobreak out of being strangers; wehave to reach out and listen toeach other. Not just wait for ourturn to speak, but to care aboutwhat someone else is saying. Andto really care about each other.To hear each other.

If we can do this we can create apublic space where theserelationships can grow andreform anew again and again.Having these relationships andspace can open doors. The publicspace is a contested space and byengaging in it we can learn to seethat things aren’t determined, thatthere is room and possibility forchange. When we are trulytogether with others we hear newpossibilities. New ways ofthinking and seeing. New ways ofliving together.

If we are open to listening toothers, to everyone, we can buildthese relationships and create thepublic space that will allow themto continue and to flourish. Thisnewspaper is one place where wecan meet each other, otherwisestrangers, and hear each other,strengthen our relationshipsaround our commoncommitments, and from this,hopefully, a significant publicspace will emerge.

...........................

TC PUBLIC SPACE:INSPIRED BY MAXINE

GREENE

REFLECTIONS ONPUBLIC SPACE

A Greene Goodbye: Vol. II, Issue 2 (November 2014)

Documents

Transcript of A Greene Goodbye: Vol. II, Issue 2 (November 2014)