A to B: Noah Mackert, Ed.M.’10

Nichts. Nichtigkeit. Vernichtung. Professor Elveton’s voice was the only sound in Carleton College’s student center. A trim man, fluent in German and complex ideas, he offered a half-credit to anyone who wanted to help translate especially dense morsels of Heidegger into English. A classmate and I signed up.

We were discussing the difference between nothingness and nullity. “It’s a rich distinction,” he said, touching his beard. He sat back and closed his eyes. My classmate and I shared a look.

Afterwards, I walked to the coffee shop to write an analysis of Life is Beautiful, the Italian drama-comedy set in a concentration camp. The movie received three Academy Awards in 1999, but critical reception was polarized. In our class, taught by the brilliant Nadja Krämer, we read arguments that the film was a triumph, deserving of its accolades; that it was an affront, a softening of the truth; and, from some critical theorists, that to use any kind of narrative to represent the Holocaust was offensive, since narratives, by their structure, implied meaning.

I felt that reviewing the film required clarity on a basic question. Was life, in fact, beautiful? Or was it, as I suspected, a meaningless absurdity?

College for me was a safe space to work through a series of crises. The first was a deep disillusionment with my country. Noam Chomsky, critical race theory, invasion of Iraq, basic American history. Add an extended study of white supremacy, followed by a long bath in European post-war critical theory, and my bummer cohered into a general dissatisfaction with life. My plan had been to pursue a doctorate in comparative literature. Two years in, though, I found it difficult to enjoy reading fiction. I found it difficult to enjoy anything at all. My professors started asking if I was okay.

Enter Mike. We had neighboring late-night slots on the campus radio station. One Friday, I asked him what he was doing over the weekend, and he said, in his characteristic dry baritone, “I’m going to prison.” He was serious; he volunteered with an organization that ran non-violence workshops at a nearby correctional facility. I asked if I could come along.

Trust falls, active listening, whispered affirmations. It was a strange day. But something about it recharged my batteries, and I kept going back. I looked for more opportunities to volunteer. The best was a trimester spent tutoring Luis, a young man recently arrived from Mexico; he wanted to learn English. I used my passion for language to do something good and useful. It was my first taste of real teaching.

A few months into my senior year, I abandoned my plan to become a professor. My disillusionment had evolved into a mix of inspiration and anger, and I knew I needed to work directly with people. After reading Jonathan Kozol’s Savage Inequalities, I decided to focus on public education. I joined Teach For America, moved to the Bronx, and have been working in schools ever since.

Now, 16 years later, I tell this story, itself a simplified version of the truth, when I’m asked how I started teaching. But I add that the feelings that got me in the classroom were not the same that kept me there. Anger at injustice, a desire to do good: they’re noble motivators, but inadequate fuel for the marathon of teaching. For that, you need something that burns slowly, something that will take you through the difficult stretches in a long year. In the absence of faith, I’ve found, a good substitute is love.

— Noah Mackert, Ed.M.’10, is the director of intervention at Alliance College-Ready Public Schools in Los Angeles

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