This week, I found a new source of inspiration: El Sistema and the Simon Bolivar National Youth Orchestra. The following links explain the program in Venezuela. Jose Abreu started "The System" in 1975. The children's orchestra now travels the world.
CBS News:
http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2008/04/11/60minutes/main4009335.shtml
TED.com featuring Jose Abreu (in Spanish with English subtitles):
http://www.ted.com/index.php/talks/jose_abreu_on_kids_transformed_by_music.html
TED.com featuring Gustavo Dudamel:
http://www.ted.com/index.php/talks/astonishing_performance_by_a_venezuelan_youth_orchestra_1.html
(Copied from the blog I update for my students in Chile)
Monday, April 20, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
More than twelve dollars.
My hand extends and unfolds, revealing 12 crumpled dollars. Her worn eyes, unwilling to match mine, dart from the pavement to the street past me.
Five minutes ago, she pleaded, “neighbor, please, do you have 12 dollars for the train? My friend died and I need to go.” Maybe if it wasn’t Easter…maybe if my gut didn’t twist with anxiety…maybe if the disparity in her eyes didn’t make me nervous…I would have said no the third time she asked. Broad daylight on a quiet suburban street – did these things really happen? For what would she use the money? Would she rob me? How did she get here? Questions began to crowd my clear thoughts.
12 dollars.
I told her to wait one minute while I parked my car, now sitting angled half on my sidewalk with the hazard lights blinking steadily. I parked, rounded up 12 dollars, and walked with unease towards my house. She waited there. I held the money and thought of things I hesitated buying for far less today – spring tulips for a friend, purple irises for my neighbors, and pineapple for my nephew. Then, the times I wasted 12 dollars - fancy beverages, subpar sandwiches, and unread books. The details of her story didn’t make sense, but neither would explaining my rational after she robbed my house angry that I refused her.
She extends her hand and crams the money into her jeans pocket. She promises to pay me back and her footsteps retreat quickly up the cement. I walk up my stairs, glance over my shoulder, and jiggle my key into the door. Inside, I find only embarrassment, contempt for her presence, and my angst lingering.
12 dollars.
Five minutes ago, she pleaded, “neighbor, please, do you have 12 dollars for the train? My friend died and I need to go.” Maybe if it wasn’t Easter…maybe if my gut didn’t twist with anxiety…maybe if the disparity in her eyes didn’t make me nervous…I would have said no the third time she asked. Broad daylight on a quiet suburban street – did these things really happen? For what would she use the money? Would she rob me? How did she get here? Questions began to crowd my clear thoughts.
12 dollars.
I told her to wait one minute while I parked my car, now sitting angled half on my sidewalk with the hazard lights blinking steadily. I parked, rounded up 12 dollars, and walked with unease towards my house. She waited there. I held the money and thought of things I hesitated buying for far less today – spring tulips for a friend, purple irises for my neighbors, and pineapple for my nephew. Then, the times I wasted 12 dollars - fancy beverages, subpar sandwiches, and unread books. The details of her story didn’t make sense, but neither would explaining my rational after she robbed my house angry that I refused her.
She extends her hand and crams the money into her jeans pocket. She promises to pay me back and her footsteps retreat quickly up the cement. I walk up my stairs, glance over my shoulder, and jiggle my key into the door. Inside, I find only embarrassment, contempt for her presence, and my angst lingering.
12 dollars.
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