But I can't help but feel as though Sullivan's Island itself is somewhat soul-less. On the first day here, we took a walk to the beach. There was house after house, all huge monuments to excess, status and waste. It was as if each house was saying to the other, "Look at me! I'm bigger than you are!" Many of these mansions are summer homes, so they languish in February like the empty vessels they truly are.
On the second day, we took a walk around Fort Moultrie. It was here I learned that Sullivan's Island was one this country's largest portals for the slave trade. A lightbulb went off. Why didn't I know this piece of history? Of course, this is what I was feeling. The cruelty, the lack of empathy. The utter inability to feel what another human being feels. Now all I could think about were those poor people, pulled from their homes, taken from their families and probably corralled on this island under the most brutal conditions. And then they were shipped to the Slave Market in Charleston. This Northerner was taken aback to hear a waiter in Charleston give directions like this, "You just walk down this street, pass the old slave market, and then turn right..." It was said so casually that it was almost impossible to process at the time.
The entire area seems to show an outer face of gentility. But everywhere you go there are museums of one of the darkest times in human history, monuments to war after war after war, as though this is the only way to latch on to an identity.
We're trying take away something positive from this trip. So we're doing some interviews.
Today, we met Mujde Temel, an enthusiastic woman who was born, raised and educated in Turkey. Her father was an engineer and her mother was the vice-principal at the elite private school she attended. Mujde was determined to become an industrial engineer like her father, to prove to herself that a woman could work in what was considered to be a man's profession. She proved it. In fact, she came to the states to further her education in Virginia. Even though she earned a Masters Degree, it was much more difficult to get a job in her chosen profession in the states than it was in Turkey. She and her future husband worked as substitute teachers to make ends meet. After they married, they moved to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan where her husband came from, a place that couldn't be more different than Turkey.
One day stood out above all others. Mujde was working with a senior teacher trying to help young children with math. The kids were having a lot of difficulty, so Mujde decided to show them how to solve the problems. She was reprimanded by the other teacher and told that these children should know the answers. If they didn't (and most of them did not), they lost their recess and had to stay inside. Mujde's heart went out to these children, most of whom came from households where parents worked 2 jobs, where the parents often only got a glimpse of their kids in between driving to working or school. There was no time to help them work on math problems. Mujde went home and cried. And when she stopped crying, she knew she had to be a teacher.
Now, Mujde is a high school algebra teacher in Summerville, South Carolina. She hears from former students all the time; she knows she makes a difference in their lives. How many of us can remember a certain teacher who encouraged us, who saw our potential, who even seemed to push us harder than the others?
Mujde is such a teacher. You can see it in her eyes and hear it in her voice when she talks about her students.
I can't wait to edit the video and post it.
Mujde's story served as a reminder of why we're doing Our Next Thing.
