The April 17 Project

Following a recent experience while teaching at school, (which you can read all about here) I decided that I wanted to do something to remind the children that they were the ones that could shape their own narratives and that no one else could do that for them. In preparing for my lesson, I came across a video by the amazing Sarah Kay, a spoken word poet who works very closely with children as part of Project V.O.I.C.E.

Here's the clip:

Something she said struck a chord with me; when she was describing how she wanted to live several lives and that she couldn't always experience the lives of others, she realised that she "only got to see through my lens and it was around this time that I became obsessed with stories, because it was through stories I was able to see through someone else's lens, however briefly or imperfectly."

It hit me.

These kids had always lived through the lens of others and it was their brief and imperfect interactions with the world around them that put them into a frame of negativity. I decided that it was high time for them to start telling me their stories, to allow them to frame the lens that they wanted the world to see.

As the video continues, Sarah mentions that she participated in the 30/30 Poetry Challenge and I was inspired to do something quite similar to it. Although we didn't have the entire month of April to do this in, we still had enough time to get something going and being me, the smart person who calculated the month of April as having 31 days, I decided that we would have to do our own 17 day challenge.

In these 17 days, they would need to write every single day. It didn't have to be a poem every single day but they would still need to write something, even if it was literally one paragraph about their day. The only conditions were that it would need to be done every single day, and that at least once in the 17 days they would need to retell a dream, a previous experience in their life, a poem, where they saw themselves in the future and the final part:

If you could capture a moment in time and make it live for eternity, what would it be?

They seemed pretty excited about the project and one of the girls put her hand up and said,
"Miss, I think it's only fair if you participated in the project too."

Heck, why not! So here is my contribution for day one of the challenge:


The April 17 Project, Day One (14/04/2015)

I've always thought that it's incredibly unfair to have been born in a country where 40 degrees is a norm, and then living somewhere like London. The skies are forever murky and feeling heat is but a dream. The weather today was exceptionally amazing, the sky a breathtaking turquoise the same shade as the fairouz ring my father won't let me steal from him.

My drive home from work was my time to unwind and relax before diving back into the sea of marking and lesson preps. Today was the same as always, me driving alone and letting my mind wander, except this time, the windows were rolled all the way down. The breeze kissed my cheeks tenderly and reminded me of good memories from my last trip to Iraq. I had the chance to get onto a small speed boat and cruise on 'Shatt al Arab,' the place where the two rivers, Tigris and Euphrates, met.

Simpler times. Happier times. Memories etched into the deep crevices of my mind that could withstand even the heaviest of storms.

Ludovico Einaudi's "The Earth Prelude" was playing as I came closer to my house, the quiver of violins rising and falling as my breaths did. It seemed as though the wind was carrying the melodious sound of the piano to the world around me, carrying a symphony in the very breeze blowing outside.

I almost didn't believe my eyes as I looked out of my window.

A small girl who lived on the same road as me was perched upon her bicycle, not too far from our driveway. It would have been unremarkable sight had I not noticed what she held in her small hands. In one she held a long stick, perched upon her shoulder softly and extending down the length of her arm. In her other hand she held another stick which she used to stroke the first. It was held in such a way that it suggested she was playing a violin, her small hands caressing the sticks with a reverential love as she played to a sweet tune that only she could hear.

I locked up my car and walked to my house, all the while watching the young girl. It struck me then that in an odd way, we all floated harmoniously in the symphony of life; we all had our own chords and notes but when melded together, we played the sweet tune of coexistence, tolerance and respect, if we just allowed ourselves to do so.