Who am I? Why am I here? These are two questions that have featured in my life more often than I care to admit. The truth is that I have grappled with these questions for the longest time. First as a pre-teen gradually becoming aware of more and more nuances to the “Who am I?” riddle, followed by my teenage awakenings of (what seemed to be) fundamental shifts in reality and the (many) ensuing existential crises. For the longest while, I only ever felt safe and at home when wrapped in the embraces of stories (told by my dad), music (played by my mom on the piano) or when flying on the wings of fantasy.
As I recall, the first place outside the sanctuary of the home my parents created, was in my reading class. Learning to read was what taught me how to relate to the strange new worlds that kept unfolding in and around me. Pages upon pages upon volumes of stories, reports and explanations drew me ever closer to some idea of who I was and how I fit into the many pictures that life painted around me. There was magic in reading, and it lifted me into the gentlest of lights.
But there was also a darkness that came with learning. The darkness of knowing. Knowing that the world was not the place of acceptance I had grown accustomed to in the embrace of my family. Knowing that cruelty was an ever threatening glint in the eyes of the people around me. Knowing that who I thought I was, and who I suspected I might become, was wicked and unwanted in the world. As I grew, the world crept into my home – and I feared that I would soon be discovered to be wicked and unwanted in my family…
This is where some of my teachers came to my rescue, while others were unwittingly tightening the noose around my soul. In stead of drumming the facts of what was good and what was bad into our skulls, some teachers lifted the roof of the world to show us what might be. I will forever be thankful to the teachers who asked me to look beyond the sentences of a two-dimensional world, and to consider the endless aspects of a single thought.
It is because of these gentle souls, and the unwavering love of my parents, that I have survived growing up. And it is because of these custodians of peace that I have found my place in the world, and that I am finally embracing my destiny – as a #wreckademic in Education.
I came up with the idea of being a #wreckademic partly as a throwback to the “academic wreck” label slapped on me in high school; partly as an intent to wreck the ruts that education has fallen into by wielding left-field scholarship as a rust-solvent for thinking about learning. It’s a bit of a self-gratuitous way of signalling that I hope to be of use in the real world. Maybe with a hint of delusions of grandeur? It’s aspirational in spirit, though, without claiming to live up to the hype of Disruption.
But why pick up blogging (again)? The hope is that by keeping an open blog, as writing-and-thinking practice, I will be able to share my passion for learning and development through my own experiences – and with the insights of likeminded people from across the globe. I hope to learn from, and be inspired by fellow travelers, mentors, teachers and other souls passionate about pedagogies of hope.
I hope to make a difference.
