alexanderrobson

[alexanderrobson]

By Alex Robson

[alexanderrobson]

From Georgia State Magazine

[alexanderrobson]

by Alex Robson

[alexanderrobson]

by Alex Robson

[alexanderrobson]

Personal Statement for Gwinnett Teacher of the Year

My students come from a long line of rule breakers in society.

Today, a new student started in my class.  He ended up here because he made threats to students and administrators at his home school. Many students I teach end up in my class this way.  This is their second chance.  I am dedicated to these kinds of students.  They are the rule breakers; the students who think differently.  I believe they are the future leaders and innovators because they are not afraid to break the rules.  All I have to do is teach them the skills to figure out what rules should and should not be broken.  

My students come from a long line of rule breakers in society.  The founding fathers were rule breakers when they declared themselves and their country free.  Harriet Tubman violated the oppressive fugitive slave act.  Martin Luther King wrote his letters from a Birmingham jail. It takes courage to break the rules, but as a teacher I need to help these students express themselves in an productive way. America is a place for second chances. On the Statue of Liberty, it states “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” My classroom can give that hope to students, and in turn my students give me that hope.

Education is the great equalizer in society.  I became a teacher because I wanted to help students to have the freedom to choose their jobs, the freedom to live where they wanted, and the freedom to go to the college.  As a teacher, I can help lift kids from poverty not by giving them charity but by showing them the tools to invest and believe in themselves.  

I am sometimes asked if I would rather work with students who are better behaved.  I would never give up my students’ rebellious attitude. These are the students I have been waiting for--- these are the students who will change the world.  

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Undelivered Remarks for Gwinnett Teacher of the Year

Teachers are the defenders of the American Dream. 

When you are born in America you are promised that you can grow up to be anything you want to be. Your skin color, your gender, your parent’s jobs do not predestine you.  A child can grow up to be anything they want to be. Our public education system in Gwinnett ensures that this promise is fulfilled. Without public education, America is not America. Without teachers, we are unable to be a great nation of opportunity. It is our charge as teachers to guard the walls of this educational institution. Mill Creek, Osborne Middle, Dacula High, Dacula Middle gave me the opportunity to fulfill my dreams of being a teacher.  GIVE West  give that opportunity to my students to be what they want to be; to be part of the American dream. Thank you

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Stone Mountain Park, DeKalb County, GA April 23, 2016

It was quite in the no man’s land between the white power gathering and the counter protest.  Only faintly in the background could you hear “black and brown don’t back down”  being chanted by the counter protesters who featured peace groups like All Out ATL, the Black Lives Matter movement, and The Black Panthers.  

Riot police with gas masks and batons set up a line that the counter protesters could not pass.  The group stopped marching there. The white supremacists, with a smaller crowd than anticipated, went up to their barrier created by the police about 100 yards away and waved their confederate flags and one man extended his hand in the ‘hail Hitler�� motion.  

These two lines created by the riot police were where freedom of speech ended. If you were to cross that boundary, you would have been arrested.  That stoic line was the frontier.  That line, for some, was where freedom turned to anarchy.

These cards were written on that line.

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Remarks upon Receiving Gwinnett Middle School Teacher of the Year

For me, my dream is right there in my metal trailer, in a sea of metal trailers, teaching kids how to read and write.

GIVE West and GIVE East play a vital role in the world class education that Gwinnett county provides to every one of its students.

I am surrounded by teachers who all play a vital role every day in our

ultimate goal of providing an education that prepares students for the world and for college.  Every one of us plays a role in that county wide statistic of graduation rate because students do not graduate three days after their senior year as they walk across the stage at the Gwinnett Center; they graduate 180 days during each school year. A student graduates at Freeman’s Mill Elementary when in 1st grade she asks for extra help with reading. A student graduates at Osborne Middle School when they find an art teacher who inspires them to become a designer. A student graduates at Pinkvneville Middle when in 8th grade she connects history with her own life. A student graduates at Mill Creek High School when he joins the marching band as a freshman and finds a place in the school. And my 7th graders graduated today, when they annotated for main idea and supporting ideas. Every day our students take another step towards their dream of becoming whatever they want to be. For me, my dream is right there in my metal trailer, in a sea of metal trailers, teaching kids how to read and write. Thank you and Go hawks!

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Bleeding DC: My Night Roaming Washington with a Band of Anarchist, Activist, and Trump Supporters

Ashes fell from the sky like snow — landing on the heads of the protesters and the helmets of the police standing guard of the burnt skeleton of a black limousine.

 I walked around looking at the potpourri of people — most staring at their feet or the burning trash cans on K Street. The air smelled like burning plastic; it burnt my nose and throat when breathing in. Photographers and reporters bounced person to person with small notepads asking the same questions over and over again: “Why are you here?” “What do you hope to accomplish?”

Then the police moved forward.

They gave little warning. I was on K Street along with Trump supporters, onlookers, protesters and rioters. All of us moved toward the end of the street. A photographer next to me stopped for a moment to take a photo and was immediately sprayed with pepper spray. He yelled in agony, “Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck!”

Everyone moved faster.

Protesters dropped their signs and left their messages on the street creating a carpet of foam core and poster board. The police stopped after their lines encased the burning trashcans.

The photographer rubbed his eyes a few feet away, and a protester took what looked like milk and sprayed it in his face. My eyes and face burned just by being near him as he was hit. After the police stopped, I saw some protesters grab broken bricks and throw them at the police. They looked like outfielders on the warning track trying to get the ball to the cutoff man. The broken bricks hit the police’s round shields and bounced off. It seemed medieval —- like a scene from Game of Thrones.

My mother, who had come with me to the inauguration, texted me: “Let’s go.” Then said she was going to a place that was protected but still near by.

The protesters formed two lines of 30 people each facing away from the police. They linked arms and began chanting, “The people united will never be defeated” and “These are our streets.” For a moment it was calm.

In the bars surrounding the scene, faces were pressed up against the windows. A man wearing a tuxedo looked out a window three stories up. A group of Trump supporters jeered the protests “You lost!” “Get out the Billy clubs!” I stood around that group for a while as one man told another about his tour of duty in Iraq and how he would not let “these folk burn an American flag.” “I’ll stop them.” The man next to him sporting a “Make America great again” red hat nodded in agreement. Every few moments a protester would walk by and a verbal altercation would occur: sometimes incited by the activist and other times by the Trump supporters. Every time it ended in the same way— with someone backing down and refusing to fight and their friends says “they are not worth it.”

I texted my mom, who was now in a bar, that I was okay. I left the crowd for a few moments to find her through the window and wave. I could see CNN through the window and the inaugural parade had begun; the smiling faces of the parade seemed far away even though it was just blocks down the road. I felt cut off from the world —- departed from reality.

I then heard a protester “Let’s go!”

The group followed, and they all walked down 15th street weaving in and out of cars for two or three blocks. As they walked, marched and ran, a man in a car yelled at them to get out of the way and a protester yelled “Fuck you!” The activist weaved in and out of cars like the Plinko chip on the Price is Right. The group’s shape was ever changing, amorphous to the vehicles. I was looking in the cars more than the protesters, and I began to notice the clothes that the riders were wearing—tuxedos and evening gowns.

The car passengers looked like they were in terrariums.

The protesters began noticing the clothes and yelling at the cars “shame, shame, shame.” Many of riders armed themselves with cell phones, recording the protests as they marched by. As they marched, people stood and watch at their windows, some jeered and some clapped. The road was gridlocked and cars honked their horns in disgust and support: the same blaring noise over and over again each longer and more frustrated than the last. They roamed the streets for a couple of hours till one protester spotted the Inaugural balls.

I don’t know if the protesters were intending to make it to the convention center, but they had. The convention center is a modern looking building with large windows. The entrance of the building was guarded by military trucks and police, but there were 10 or so other places where the protesters could create blockages with their bodies so those attending could not get into the parties. Holding hands the protesters stopped the tuxedo and evening gown clad guests who were emerging from the street. It looked like a game of Red Rover. The police then pushed the protesters back only for them to find a new place to assemble; a police officer yelled, “Protect the rich people.”

I saw some ball goers who looked afraid. Some looked annoyed. Some had kids who looked on as their mothers were called sell outs. The protesters yelled and chanted. A few people even took selfies with the protesters putting a mocking peace sign out in front of their face before they snapped the picture. The police pushed the protesters back again: separating and protecting the two groups from each other. After the separation occurred, the protesters could no longer effectively blockade the ball, but the damage was done: D.C. was at a standstill.

Some attendees headed home knowing they were not going to make it to the ball that night.

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I followed the group around for another hour or so; they passed by the upscale shops of Chinatown. The reflection of their anti-capitalism signs flashed back on them from the windows of the Cartier and Ferragamo stores. Little by little the group dwindled; I too broke from the group that had lost most of its power because of the reduced size. I headed back to the balls stopping to take a picture of the police who had now relaxed. More party goers flooded in from the still clogged streets. I retraced our steps and saw glass company trucks that were replacing broken glass from business that had been vandalized earlier in the day. As I turned on K Street, there were crews cleaning up the burned garbage cans leaving an outline similar to that of a murder victims at a crime scene. Broken rocks and sticks littered the ground. The burned limo was being towed away. The air was mostly clear and the police now talked casually to each other. A few sat on the curb and ate sandwiches. I walked into the hotel bar where mother was.

She was happy to see me.

Unbeknownst to me, she was sitting with the Governor of New Mexico Susana Martinez who could not make it to the balls because of the protest I had just witnessed. I told them what I had seen. We all watched outside as the police kept order on the intersection and a few stray protesters kept marching. The bar was warm, and the televisions continued broadcasting the inaugural parade. As I sat in the bar, I was conflicted. I was compassionate to the protesters, but also to the ball goers who had won the election. Every group had people who had lost control; both groups had passionate activist. I think they all wanted what was best for America, but were literally fighting in the streets for it. the scene reminded me Bleeding Kansas before the civil war only with tear gas and concussion grenades. Who here was Martin Luther King? and who was George Wallace? One thing was for sure, these groups of people lived in different Americas separated by lifestyle, geography, and values.

The lobby of the building was filled with young Republicans in tuxes and nice suites who left the balls when no one showed up. They were searching for a place to go to celebrate. My mom asked if they had found somewhere and one of them gave her the thumbs up. As we walked outside, the burning smell had returned. It was cold and windy, and in the distance you could hear helicopters circling and police lights still strobed over the street.