Third Story

Canning with Katie

2010-07-06T17:04:00.005-04:00

a post in images...

Spending Snowy Days

2010-02-08T15:57:00.005-05:00

Some morning granola making

Snow walking

A view of Druid Hill Ave on Sunday afternoon--
this is pretty passable

Here's a more typical street on the west side
I wonder when any of us will be driving?

Behind every good man, is a great scarf

Some evening pasta making

And quilting

Hibernation is still fun but
with more snow predicted,
it could get old.

Snow 2010

2010-02-06T15:56:00.004-05:00

Upon opening my front door this afternoon,
this is what I saw:

Our street

The yard

We're huddled in
cleaning, reading, shoveling
and some knitting and Lost watching
to come this evening.

All in all, a lovely
blizzardy weekend.

Coming Home

2009-12-31T12:35:00.004-05:00

Between weather
and time constraints
we've been driving straight through
from California.

And it's good to be home.

We are still speaking--
with thanks to
Radio Lab (which allowed me to make interesting
conversation about hook worms
during dinner in Oklahoma City)
Fresh Air podcasts, The Moth, and This American Life.

I only made it through one half a book (of the three I brought with me)
however, we enjoyed the audio versions of
Juliet, Naked by Nick Hornsby and the very long,
less enjoyable
State of Fear.

Some missing highlights--

We ate at this west coast destination.

It was fun...but we're not sure
what all the fuss is about.

Todd has become a Lil' Ranger
even though he's trying to keep it
top secret

I was charmed by the Murray Street Cafe
which we stumbled upon in Dallas

But we've decided, there's no place
like Baltimore.

Happy New Year!!!

Turning East

2009-12-27T23:33:00.004-05:00

Before we left the west coast,
we spent some time at Jiffy Lube to get our oil changed.

Thankfully, we were in little India
and were able to procure a samosa snack
while we waited.

And then checked out this recommended pizza shop
for lunch before we took to the roads.

We ended up in the desert by nighttime.

It's amazing that you can wake up in the Parc 55 Union Square
and by 11:30 be driving down the interstate
having already been looking for a motel, any motel, for an hour.
We found this one a little after 12.

You had to check-in at the Chevron across the way.
No wi-fi, no non-smoking option and I wished
I had my college shower flip flops
but I was grateful for the bed, the only bed
for many, many miles.

Today was filled with amazing scenery
that changed often
and is so different
from the east coast.

Christmas in San Francisco

2009-12-26T12:18:00.006-05:00

On Christmas Eve we drove up the coast on the 101
taking in the beautiful scenery.

Thanks to Ellen we had a great
walking tour of the city.

We started at the Powell Turnaround

Then had the most amazing burritos.

We walked up Stockton Street enjoying the views.

Then we wandered into Chinatown.

Strolled into North Beach

Hung out at a park with a latte

Then we sat by the water taking in the Golden Gate bridge
and enjoying the sunshine.

We took a different route home...not realizing it included
a very large hill.

Then stumbled into Japantown.

All in all, a pretty perfect day.

San Bernardino

2009-12-25T22:31:00.005-05:00

We got to San Bernardino late
Monday night and spent
the next few days with Aunt Dian
at her charming house.

On Monday we checked out some
of Aunt Dian's haunts.

Micah House where she works with an after school program.

The famous Redlands Bowl of many outdoor summer performances.

The beautiful San Bernardino mountains

Aunt Dian and Todd waiting in line during our day at Disneyland.

Aunt Dian said we wore her out...but we could hardly keep up with her!

Carlsbad Caverns

2009-12-22T15:51:00.004-05:00

We love, love, loved the Carlsbad Caverns. So far it's been our favorite place.
Unfortunately the inside photos were too dark but the entrance was pretty dramatic!

Todd in New Mexico on the road.

The entrance to the caverns.

Listening to our audio tour

A view from the cave to the outside.

We drove all day Monday and are now hanging with Aunt Dian in San Bernardino--
enjoying the mountain views and palm trees.

Days in Review

2009-12-21T11:42:00.004-05:00

One small thing I forgot to add about Memphis
is the abandoned pyramid in the center of town.
We kept seeing signs for the pyramid and
when we finally tracked it down, it was vacant.

After the book depository museum in Dallas,
we went on the water feature tour.
While not everything was on,
it was well worth it.

Assassination Vacation

2009-12-20T00:52:00.003-05:00

Somehow in the past two days
we've managed to see museums
commemorating both the JFK and MLK
assassinations.

The book depository

Todd at the grassy knoll

More to come tomorrow.
The motel wi-fi is a little funky.

Memphis to Texas

2009-12-19T00:35:00.005-05:00

I'm not sure if there are vegetarians
in Memphis.

After a dinner of ribs and pork loin sandwich
(I'm actually not sure if there are meat eaters
who don't eat pork in Memphis)
at Rendezvous, we wandered Beale Street.
My musician helped me figure out what
makes a blues a blues.

I've enjoyed the Memphis street cars rolling up and down
the streets.

Today we went back to finish the Civil Rights Museum
and checked out Graceland.

We are now both HUGE fans of Elvis.

Then we were back on the road.
Drove through Arkansas.
Had dinner in Hope
(birthplace of Bill Clinton)
and now are heading to sleep
in Texas.

From the Road

2009-12-17T18:55:00.004-05:00

I was in technological purgatory yesterday.
My phone battery is near dead,
my computer wouldn't get wi-fi
and I'm always confused about the time.

Today is looking better.

Enjoying the ride.

The Virginia Mountains

The National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis.

We're Off!

2009-12-17T00:14:00.002-05:00

Waking up in Baltimore
and heading to sleep
in Tennessee

After a long day of driving,
it's nice to get the bonus hour
of central time.

Today's listening included:

audio highlights from Todd's '01 trip
across country
(when gas was $1.19 and cell phones
had roaming charges)
jazz
npr
Michael Crichton's State of Fear

Tomorrow we head to Memphis.

New Yard

2009-11-23T18:54:00.007-05:00

Just in time for the early darkness, the yard was completed. Looking forward to enjoying it in the spring...

Before

During

After

176

2009-10-19T20:19:00.003-04:00

That's the number of homicides
so far this year
in the city of Baltimore--

from best I can tell.

The number always gets bigger.

176.

But it's just a number.

The radio talks about how it's lower
than other years.

This is progress.

Only 176.

Then there's a connection
to one of those murders.

You know a mother,
an angry brother
and a sensitive one--

it's more than a number.

It's not just one life cut short--
one scholarship never used
another statistic it's

how do those left behind
get over the loss of
brothersongrandsonnephew?

176 fingers
stretching long
over the city
like a spider's thin web.

We try to duck and cover
but in certain neighborhoods

it's only a matter of time.

Poems to Melt Your Heart

2009-10-12T21:03:00.004-04:00

That's what she titled her file
at the end of the day on the computer.
Writing a poem doesn't end the pain
she started.

This morning I got bombarded--

N: Miss Emily, I need some adoption papers.
Me: Adoption papers? For what?
N: For me. I'm putting myself up for adoption.
Me: Hmmm. I don't have any. But I can google it for you after school...see what I can do.

So it was that I found myself at the end of the day typing
adoption
adopt a 12 year old girl
12 year old girl adoption
into the google tool bar

Me: I'm not sure this is going to solve your problem.
N: Well, Matilda did it. She got adopted. She's smart and I'm smart. I don't know why I can't do the same thing.

Like a girl out of a story book
she turned to book heroines
to expand her opportunities.

She melts my heart.

Summer Skirts

2009-06-13T16:17:00.002-04:00

After talking about making skirts, I finally plunged in this weekend.
I traced an A-line skirt I like, added an elastic waist, hemmed it and...
the perfect summer skirt!
I was able to do the third one in an episode of This American Life--
a very rewarding project.

Testing

2009-03-15T17:52:00.003-04:00

We don't ask kids in wheelchairs to get up and walk.
We don't ask kids who are blind to read the board.
Or kids who are deaf to listen.

However, kids with learning disabilities or reading disabilities
should be working at grade level
otherwise we're leaving them behind.

I was tutoring a student on Thursday night who is dyslexic.
She came with her homework--
a test passage on her grade level which was ions too hard.
She's super bright,
but sometimes she sees words on the page
differently than other kids do.

Working on a test passage that is too hard doesn't help her.
Taking the test doesn't help her.
In fact, it's probably taking away time where she could be doing things that might actually help move her forward.

It was agonizing.
Reading the passage,
looking for answers,
sometimes the answers were unclear
(and I am far beyond third grade).

It's bad practice to make kids,
especially kids who are struggling,
do work that is too hard for them.

It doesn't accomplish anything.
In fact, it may hurt.

When she doesn't pass
we will shake our heads and sigh.

Start working to get her ready
for fourth grade instead of
helping her to see.

Kites on the Corner

2009-02-17T22:01:00.002-05:00

I walked home from school yesterday to find
a small band of guys on the corner
right next to the sketchy shop
that opened not so long ago.

Oh no I thought, disheartened
The drug dealers have come down to our little corner?

I paused at my door, the suspicious neighbor
to see if I could figure out what was going on
or recognize any faces.

My mistake.

There was just a kite.
Everyone working to get it in the air.

Like a February miracle
dancing against the sky.

A Skirt

2009-01-27T18:33:00.003-05:00

Going back to graduate school hasn't worked well with my creative life.

Unfortunately, writing papers and readings have sapped some of my inspiration.

My creative projects have been sitting. Waiting.

But over Christmas, I picked out some new yarn and started a scarf.

This weekend, I made an impromptu visit to Ikea and ended up making a skirt.
In under 4 hours.
That seems a reasonable project to take the edge off academia.

(Perhaps this skirt would have been better as a tablecloth?)

Maybe I need to get back to the blog too?

Snowballs on the Avenue

2008-07-14T18:19:00.006-04:00

I promised them snowballs.

It was bribery, really, from last Friday
when deep in July, I wanted them to act like October
because new teachers were observing.
They rose to the moment (put on quite a show)
which had us, today, after lunch, strolling over to the frozen cup guy.

The plan was to go to Mr. Benny's, behind the school.
But he's sick and not open for the summer.
Our second option around the corner, was closed.

So they wailed, "Let's go down the avenue. Pleeeeaasssse."

The avenue is a few blocks away and the Baltimore blue lights flash their reminder that you need to be extra careful.
C'mon. They have better snowballs there.
And against my better judgment, I said, yes.

And so it was, that waiting to get snowballs, a girl walked by and ran into Teya.
It was rude,
it was intentional,
it was completely unacceptable
and Teya would not, in a million years let it go.
The back and forth began.
The girl in the black and white striped shirt cussed and Teya made a threat.
They volley back and forth.
The rest of the girls rose to Teya's defense.

You don't need to be a chess master to see how the next moves are going to play out.
Teya had already had a tough day.
Her hair was only half done and the boys had already teased her.
Now the girls on the street.

It's like the match to a short fuse,
the spark on a California desert.
The waving gun on the 4th of July.

We build a school-world where good choices and I-statements are valued
and we want them to transfer that to the neighborhood.
Today, I thought, it was an impossible task.

I talked Teya down (barely)
knowing this would be repeated
on other afternoons
without the conflict-resolution preaching teacher
standing nearby.

The Baltimore Sun tallies up the homicides so far this year at 106.

Maybe it's too big a leap in logic
connecting my girls to that swelling number.
Around here, even the little things explode--
and turn violent.

I'm sorry, Ms. Emily Teya said as we walked back to school. She made me so mad. That was wrong.

I know one hundred stories about Teya
giving her reasons to be angry at the world.
The other girl probably does too.

Teya is lovable.
Her heart is good.

But this afternoon on the avenue
I didn't need to be a chess master
or psychic
to look down the thin path
of her future.

On Fieldtrips

2008-04-05T23:14:00.004-04:00

Dear Museum Operators of the World,

I understand that museums are quiet places which require the use of inside voices. I understand shhhh, don't touch and how to hiss I told you to go to the bathroom before we left when one asks to go and seven more follow, most likely because they want to see the bathroom not use it.

Nevertheless--kids are not quiet and they touch things and, in my experience, nearly always ask to go to the bathroom.

So the classic museum trip tends to be stressful. It's a lot of herding and shushing
and counting heads to make sure no one wanders off. We teachers try to set the ground rules ahead of time, explain the purpose, arm our scholars with notebooks and pencils to record information and cross our fingers that no one starts fussing or has a meltdown.

But Museum People, life is hard in the classroom, let alone at a museum. It takes quite a few tricks to keep things bumping along semi-smoothly on a regular day. And so, if you are offering programming to students, if you claim to welcome schools, some things to consider...

1. Don't screw up the scheduling. Calling a week before a trip to say, oops, you double-booked is not what anyone needs to sort out during their planning time.

2. Don't leave us sitting around waiting. For over 10 minutes. Without any information. And then please don't let a security guard walk in and tell us to quiet down when everyone is sitting. There needs to be a reason for silence.

3. Don't skip the overview video which everyone says is the best part of the museum.

4. Don't ask everyone to line up at the door and then say, Oh, you can put your coats in these bins. This creates chaos. See #2 for a good time to put coats in bins.

5. Don't start talking until everyone is in the near vicinity. Sometimes it takes a moment to situate a group of kids. Ideally, a docent should not be losing her voice so the kids can actually hear what she's saying.

6. Don't leave your tour group stranded on the third floor without a map and say I've really enjoyed your questions! Enjoy the rest of the museum.

7. Don't claim a tour will address content that it doesn't.

8. Don't say you have tours for school groups when you only have one hands-on activity in the museum.

9. Remember, we paid for this. And the bus. And we had a reason for coming.

Maybe you don't want us at all. I understand. Really, I do. But then let's be upfront about that from the beginning. Why pretend to want groups of school kids dragging through your museum. They're loud, they touch things...they really just want to check out the bathrooms. And quite frankly, it's the bus ride they crave. But then--don't invite us.

Most sincerely...

Many thanks to the Reginald F. Lewis of African American History in Maryland for inspiring this post.

(From a field trip last spring at the Botanical Gardens in Washington, DC. The best part: playing its on the mall lawn.)

Rites of Spring

2008-03-29T17:02:00.004-04:00

One day
this week was warm
with the promise of spring and
by the next morning
there had been three brawls
and three shootings
in our urban village.

This is the thaw after winter
the precursor to summer heat.

Eleven year old girls
told stories of who raced after fights
and peeked their eyes out windows,
who followed the helicopters
waltz in the sky.

The Marches of my own childhood
were spent spotting robins,
spying the first crocus in our neighbor's yard,
watching for the first hint of green
frost the tree tips.

These are the privileges we don't count
when we add up the sum of our lives
the taking for granted of the first warm afternoon and
the shift in the air that starts a new season.

There are no robins.
There's not one crocus.
The trees are bare and spindly.

Spring is here.

My Creative Venture of the Week

2008-02-23T16:43:00.003-05:00

I had the week off from school and used the time to make my first skirt.

Hopefully there will be more to come...

Takings

2007-10-08T18:08:00.000-04:00

"Who's been taken from you?"
Leeka and Aisha asked
as we walk to my house
after school today.

I took them home to do
homework, give them a snack
as my first official duty
as mentor.

"Who's been taken?
You know, not from
getting old or dying regular
but taken away with a gun
or something."

No one, I say.

"No one? Really?"

To have a conversation
about not if
you've lost someone to violence
but how many people you've lost
with two eleven year olds
makes you pause.

"I think the world is really good,"
Leeka says, "and really bad too."

Yeah, I say.

Because there should not be
so much grief
in one neighborhood,
in one city
there should not be children
who know so many murders
that it is normal

the world tilts on its side
in the sky
the planets are falling
but the street
thinks there's nothing
unusual

Ghosts

2007-10-07T15:07:00.000-04:00

"I'm scared
I saw a dead man
and I don't know who he is"
Teya exclaimed on the stairs
after lunch.

She has seen dead people before.

I weigh out her dramatic spirit
with how scary it would be
to really see a dead person.

This was hardly a private conversation
so by the time we were writing
in the afternoon,
it felt like were on the verge of sleepover squeals.

Kids were asking to go to the bathroom
then refusing because they were too scared.
Everyone was seeing movement in the hall.
Occasionally there was a spontaneous scream.

Two days later everyone was recovered
except Teya, who still held to her story.
Tia suggested she might need a psychologist.

"This is a new one," I commiserated
with the math teacher over lunch
as we brainstormed ways to not play
into her drama while acknowledging
her visions.

And so she's started a Sixth Sense journal.
"Not everyone understands, " I said
"so it might be best not to tell other kids."

I'm adding another skill to my resume--
ghostbusting.

When I Grow Up...

2007-10-01T21:07:00.001-04:00

"I'm gonna be a
genius supermodel"
Leeka said
at the end of the day
"because there are
super models
but I think it would be
more unique
to be a genius supermodel."

Poetry Magic

2007-09-30T16:44:00.000-04:00

Kendia put a Kick Me post-it
on Tia, Teya hit Kendia
after dance because
Kendia told her she had a
beady head, Tia called
Teya "ugly face"

this scrappy little trio
is always alternating
between love and hate,
all of them reading below grade level
all of them frustrated learners to some degree
carting around a dictionary sized
book of sad stories

and so it came to be
when asked to choose
their favorite poem
they picked three

one each

adding hand claps
dance moves
beats
and a ribbon standing in
as a jump rope

maybe they should
open the United Nations
with a poem
that everyone chants together

they can take turns
thinking who makes
up the beat
and who holds the jump rope

it might just work

September

2007-09-15T19:26:00.000-04:00

I have nine more credits to my name
after this long summer
as I begin another three.

The school garden has grown wild
with neglect as I've left
the tangled growing things
to their own devices

I look back over my shoulder
wishing for a last swim
or salty beach walk
all those perfect nectarines.

This week I started school
the new faces mixed in with the old
as we try to learn each other
at the beginning of this long journey
marked by clean erasers and empty
notebooks

There is so much possibility.

I promise myself I'll be endlessly patient
keep my desktop neat
find the pathway for each girl I teach
so they fall in love with reading.

By November, these intentions will probably
be knotted like our tomato vines

But this is September

I hang up the note Teya wrote me
the second day of school
the one with almost every word spelled right
and the heart at the bottom
with the word you inside.
Because I helped her through a sichuashon.

This will be my sustenance
after a long day
remind me of the possibility
of September.

"I Don't Want to Go to Jail When I Grow Up,"

2007-07-19T20:21:00.000-04:00

Teya said today
after I had just heard that NPR report
about how kids who have
one parent in jail
have an 80-some percent chance
of going there themselves
but if you have two parents--
your chances are in the 90s.

A legacy to always
lurk in the shadows
playing hide and go seek
until you turn eighteen.

Just last week
we talked about the place down the street
where women go to recover from addiction
after we helped out in the new garden

Maybe
when my mom gets out of jail
she could go there
Teya said
But if all those ladies do drugs
don't they just buy from each other?

I'd like to give Teya
a storybook mama
who reads stories and bakes cookies,
gives a her a kiss goodnight
Someone who can fill the swiss cheese holes
of her little girl heart

I wonder if I will be here again
sitting with Teya's daughters
on a stormy day in July
hearing these same words
circling back to this moment

I cross my fingers
send out a little prayer
and gaze across the roofs of the city
looking for hope

Hope

2007-06-05T11:11:00.000-04:00

This mural was just completed
a few blocks from my house
at the organization where my husband works
where there is now a whole intersection
of abandoned buildings
being made whole
made to live in
by women overcoming addiction

on this crazy avenue
there is now room to pause
and glance into the sun
shining through the trees.

Baltimore Stories

2007-05-20T17:46:00.000-04:00

It has been one of those weeks where I have been overwhelmed by what my kids deal with on a daily basis. I continue to admire their tenacity and perseverance and wonder why it sometimes feels so helpless to be and adult without any answers.

Baltimore Stories

Two weeks ago
a car flipped Teya
off her bike
in her pink nightgown
when she dashed
out without checking

One week ago
she shared in morning circle
I don’t have a mommy anymore
she’s in prison

On Friday
she was in court
to testify against her brother’s friend
because she witnessed him with drugs
she was back in school by eleven
my granma was fussin’ with the judge
she confided she don’t want me talkin’

I don’t want her talking either

But this is just one brick
in the crumbling walls
criss-crossing the city
only a mile from the
shine of the Inner Harbor

This is just one daughter
of the city
one voice of the small multitude

Teya lives three short blocks
from my house
but I could live on the moon
the milky way
resting between us

Loose Ends

2007-05-07T20:02:00.000-04:00

I have felt perpetually behind the past few weeks. Field trips, a wedding, a trip to Minneapolis, finishing a quilt, making plans to move our growing greenhouse into a garden...the days have been flying by. And I just decided to go back to school so I can be certified as a Reading Specialist. It sounded like a good idea until I learned that class will be from 4:30 to 9:30 twice a week. And I haven't started yet.

And the worms, the worms have disappeared. I think this is less about magic and more about death. I've killed 1,000 worms. Hopefully it is all the circle of life...

For the newly arrived Spence...

And while we may have let down the worms, we are in a time of cultivation.
Minds, hearts and plants.
Growing.

My Favorite Conversation so Far This Week

2007-04-18T22:09:00.000-04:00

I held my breath as I came back to the greenhouse, hoping the plants would not all be dead. They were not. However there was a potato plant growing out of the worm bin and a large family of fruit flies. Despite instructions not to touch the worms, the overzealous waterers had removed the lid making it a tad dry for the red wigglers while providing plenty of air and sun to sprout a new potato. We planted the potato plant in soil, added some wet newspaper and the world's greatest pet(s) survived like true champions. While trying to resuscitate...

Leeka: Can worms eat cheese?
Me: No, no cheese. Only fruits and vegetables. And egg shells and coffee grounds.
Leeka: Is that because worms are lactose intolerant?

Highlights of a Trip to Vietnam

2007-04-16T18:51:00.000-04:00

After 30 hours of travel I am happily back home from Vietnam. The country was beautiful and it's amazing to travel across the globe and realize how many ways life is the same for people everywhere. The commonalities seem to outweigh the differences. I made it through my first day back at school with only a normal dose of coffee so I believe I'm triumphing over the jet lag.

The Streets of Hanoi

Crossing the street is pretty treacherous. There are motor bikes everywhere and very few street lights. The traffic never stops. After a day or two of this, we discovered that it's kind of like Frogger. There seems to be this mutual trust that everyone is watching out for each other...but I did hear multiple stories of pedestrians getting hit so it may not be fool proof.

Sap Pa

We took a twelve hour, overnight train ride to a small village of H'mong people called Sap pa, up near the border of China. This was probably the greatest fiasco of the trip only because it was extremely cold and I had only brought t-shirts and a sweatshirt. Also, it sounds great to go see how the ethnic minorities live, but once I got there it felt uncomfortable and zoo-like. I had a similar experience when going to a reservation in New Mexico (I left before visiting). My new personal rule, no visiting of native people or ethnic minorities. It's too complicated. And it's not worth a 12 hour train ride to buy handicrafts.

Floating Villages

Another side trip was to Ha Long Bay in the the Gulf of Tonkin. There are huge, magical boulders jutting up from the water and a filmy mist hovering over everything. Even more intriguing was the water culture. There are floating villages and fishing huts. There is even a floating school. People live on the water full time. There is an impressive entrepreneurial spirit in Vietnam as evidenced by the fruit selling out on the water. I'm not sure how the fruit got there but it was offered in abundance.

The Market

The food, the food, the food! Delicious food! I was able to take a Vietnamese cooking class one morning. We wandered through the market before learning how to make spring rolls, royal rice, and a grilled fish wrapped in rice paper.

Does life get any better than this?

Crossing the Ocean

2007-03-31T18:35:00.000-04:00

I'm packing my suitcase and readying myself for a very long flight.
But on the other side there will be friends waiting and a new part of the world to explore.
I'll be back in two weeks with stories to tell.

Poetry Thursday: The Beginning of Wonder

2007-03-22T07:40:00.000-04:00

This week's Poetry Thursday prompt is to use an image as inspiration for a poem. I've been taking a lot of pictures at school to document our greenhouse transformation. We've started some urban gardening worm composting and I love seeing my city kids find touchpoints to nature. This is a rough, rough draft at a poem...right now the picture is about as much poem I have energy for. I guess this is my attempt at a composting poem.

this is the beginning of wonder

that we could throw our lunch
into the grainy soil of the Earth,
where she will hold it in her round belly
chewing it over days and months
spitting it out
as new dirt

The Day in Numbers

2007-03-21T18:23:00.000-04:00

We just finished our last day of testing. A snapshot, with inspiration from Harper's Index.

Kids who cried: 4
Cups of water spilled: 1
Granola bars eaten: 15
Pieces of gum chewed: 28
Appearances by Supergirl (aka Brooke wearing pink sunglasses and sweatshirt cape): 1
Headaches: 2
Songs we thought of with the word love in it: 7
Kids who hate school pizza: 3
Food for worms: 20 ounces
Times danced the Tooty-ta-ta: 2
Times danced old school soul train before sounding like elephants: 1
Times said I hate this test: 24
Times said You want me to fail this test so you can keep me back with you next year: 1
Times said I know it's hard, but if you don't know what to do, make a guess: 132 (okay, rough estimate)
Injuries in gym: 2
Talks in the hallway to work out a friendship problem: 2
Double-doubles in morning circle: 5
Slides across the floor during break: 6
Plants watered: 21
Deep breaths taken when it's all over: 14 + 1 teacher

Poetry Thursday: Ten

2007-03-14T21:07:00.000-04:00

This has been a long week. THE TEST has started and the worms have arrived and yesterday the AIDS people returned to hand out prizes and pamphlets.

After an endless morning of coloring bubbles we tried to coast through the afternoon. At 4:00 we reported to the gym to hear a twenty-one year old woman speak about her experience with AIDS.

I'm off my medicine, she proclaimed. I'm tired of taking it.
I wake up every morning and hate what I see in the mirror.

The test weary audience was glazed over with only a few giggles when things like anal sex and vaginal fluid came up.

Then it was time to go around to tables set up with brochures and pamphlets and tablets and pencils...all the things a bunch of kids will lap up like a treasure. They were handed shiny red bags to hold all their paper. Just as they were leaving, a teacher discovered that there were also condoms. Handfuls of condoms: strawberry and lime, female and ribbed...our ten year olds had strips of condoms piled in their bags.

I am not opposed to educating kids about contraceptives but I do think it's important to actually educate them, not throw them in a bag and hand it to them like candy. ("I want a piece of candy!" one first grader whined while passing by) And I think ten is too young. It's already the beginning of crossing out of childhood. No one wants a bag full of condoms with that.

And so, I share this recently discovered poem by Billy Collins. I keep reading the last two stanzas over and over again because they are that perfect.

On Turning Ten

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.

-- Billy Collins

Green

2007-03-10T18:51:00.000-05:00

One of the things that I love about teaching, is that you never know when you will stumble into a new adventure.

We have a small greenhouse at the school that has never been used and last year I wrote a grant to get it up and running. I know next to nothing about growing and planting things. My thumb is not green and I've killed more plants than I can count. But that has not stopped me from taking on a project I perhaps should better leave to someone with more experience. After a big cleanup, we got to growing things. The sun is pouring in and we're watering every day, it was a relief to see sprouts on Tuesday morning. Then I ordered 1,000 worms off the internet so we can begin composting...something else I know nothing about.

Green

we hold the seeds in our palms
hard brown specks

we can’t believe their potential
can’t believe this is the beginning
of life

that this knobby lint
will poke out
of the earth in green

could any other miracle
be this simple?

Poetry Thursday: Red

2007-03-07T21:10:00.000-05:00

This week's Poetry Thursday topic is Red. I kept looking for red this week but everything seemed grey and green. The only red I could find was the lines of brick rowhouses. And no poem was coming from there this week.

Then tonight I was making marinara sauce and thinking about the movie Mostly Martha (a favorite of mine) which tells the story of a chef. It has all sorts of beautiful food scenes in it. And I just recently found the main musical theme of the movie, which I also love. So I set to writing a food inspired poem to Country by Keith Jarrett on repeat. I think the poem may be trying to go in a few too many directions, but here's my offering for this week.

Red

the tomatoes
swim out of the can--
fibrous hearts,
stringy and bloated

this is the beginning of destiny

they want to fall
in the lap
of an Italian grandmother
they want to be part
of the one true sauce

but it is only weeknight
trial and error
half-best
let’s get dinner on the table

the most ordinary fate
of tomatoes

this generosity of life
the garlic, the wine
the sticky pasta

that we wake up every morning

Poetry Thursday: Knowing Things

2007-02-28T21:20:00.000-05:00

My poem is not on topic for this week's Poetry Thursday. This was inspired today after a conversation I had at school. Perhaps a bit more narrative than poem but here's what I have for today.

Knowing Things

Brooke looked up from
The The Popcorn Book today
to ask if she could
write a letter to the president.

She had a question about popcorn.

Do you think the president
is the best person to ask
about popcorn? I asked.

Well he’s the president.
He should know things.

I couldn’t argue with that.

I wanted this spring hope
of writing a letter to the people
most-in-charge
because they had sat
around a table, drinking
strong coffee and figuring
out the world--
global warming
education
peace
popcorn.

I’d write letters
with questions
and watch the mail
like an old-timey sailor
counting the days
to shore.

But it is only us
with our fathoms
of unknowing
anchoring us to
this mantle of earth
trying to peer
over the side
of the world.

Turn Around Luck

2007-02-26T23:29:00.000-05:00

Morning.

Teya throws up in the middle
of opening circle.
Nell knocks over her
pink cup full of water.
The phone keeps whining
for attention...
the normal daily attendance
but then explaining Tyra
has to leave early and
Teya will be back to class
her grandmother wanting her
to stay longer and then
Ms Emily?
Yes!
Pick up.
Yes?
The boot. They're putting the boot
on your car.

There have been times
when I've had parking tickets
scattered through my life unpaid
when this would not be wholly unexpected.
Today I could think of no ignored bills.

Someone comes to watch my class,
I run downstairs.

The social worker is trying to stall
the booters, but it's already on.
Why did you put the boot on? I ask
What should I do?
Parking tickets they mumble. Call that number
they point to the orange signage
tacked to my car.

Back upstairs I dial while my class reads.
Your call will be answered in 29 minutes
the line drones. I can't think of
29 minutes I'll have together in this day
to wait for answers.
I hang up.

Daya knocks over her water.
Teya goes to the bathroom
and throws up again.

Ms. Emily? the phone calls again.
Yes?
Can you pick up?
Yes.
They took it off. They came back and
it's gone.

The day sommersaulted
over a zigzag morning
into a green afternoon.

Poetry Thursday: The Unraveling

2007-02-22T09:26:00.000-05:00

This week's Poetry Thursday prompt is the body knows. I spent some time drafting a poem for the draft, but nothing worth sharing came out. So, I'm reposting a poem from the fall about skin...which was a direction my poems were heading in during my drafts.

The Unraveling

Bria is peeling off her skin
in strips, like an orange
from the tip of her index finger
across the canyon of her palm
scattering the refuse across her desk
like a thin curl of pencil shavings

That the skin can come off
with just a thumbnail is a puzzle
it is all that connects the insides
these muscles, bones, veins--
the very center the very heart
could tumble onto the floor
if this gauze disappears

One more layer and there will be
a prick of blood waiting, she convinces herself
this will be her smoky red earth
her something strong her something
good this will be her root
she digs like a child looking for China

there's not one scarlet drop

All this fragility
this is all we have

In Which We Take on Things Bigger Than Ourselves

2007-02-19T20:43:00.000-05:00

Six weeks.
Six long weeks.

We wrote our fast food
anti-McDonalds play
and rehearsed it
into oblivion.

We learned lines
and practiced
keeping our faces
to the audience
(I was known to cackle
I'm looking at your back!
your back! your back! your back!)

We made backdrops
out of crayon and paper
and stuck it to the wall,
empty cups and Big Mac wrappers
served as props

After three days of ice and snow
they took the stage
giggly and nervous
hoping their lines would be funny
crossing their fingers
they wouldn't say the wrong thing
when the boys were in the audience

loaded with helpful tips
I gleaned from drama class
in high school sophomore year

sometimes we find ourselves in places
where a hundred other people
could do a better job
so we lean on what we know
say the lines, make a set with crates
and hope it's enough

Our cast photo

Poetry Thursday: Where We Lean on Our Hands Looking Out the Window

2007-02-14T20:06:00.000-05:00

This week's Poetry Thursday topic was to write a prose poem. I must say I often skip over prose poems when I come to them in a book. I like my poetry to be poetry and my prose to be prose. However, I thought I'd at least try my hand at it.

This has been my week of pondering the snow day. On Tuesday we teachers were checking websites, watching weather patterns and whispering behind our hands, hoping for an early closing. Today we got a snow day and so I've enjoyed Jamaican rum pancakes and laying on the couch with my valentine...and even working on writing some curriculum. There is something perfect about having a day with no obligations. It's a gift. Here's my poem.

Where We Lean on our Hands Looking out the Window

Kneeling at the thin computer glow, teasing out the promises of meteorology, the low and high pressure areas stretching across the country in swaths of red and blue. I watch the changes like a presidential election then reach one long arm to fold the grey sky in half, six times, and trim it with scissors. Triangles and ovals, thin slits falling down like hole punch rings and moons. The streets are lined in blank paper. Salt. Rice. Popcorn. Milk. Ceilings laid end to end. All this dreaming for one cold perfect day.

Winter Scene

2007-02-09T17:35:00.000-05:00

I pass this tree on my way home from school.
It reminds me off how much work there is to be done in this world.
It has me looking for spring.

Poetry Thursday: What Doesn't Change

2007-02-07T21:56:00.001-05:00

The theme for Poetry Thursday is changeI decided to think of the absence of change for my poem. Somehow lately I've been struck by the things that I can't change.

What Doesn’t Change

the slant cold of February
sinking into socks

the war droning
like time at the mva

the test-- waiting
at the doorstep to
clobber

the streets wide and grim
looking for children
to swallow

the boarded houses
standing sentry

the eleven o’clock news
full of yellow tape
and glass stories

this is what
we glimpse
out our window

even the pavement
is groaning

we grip tight
this tired space

straining our necks,
looking for the green
of tomorrow

Little Tragedies

2007-02-05T22:30:00.000-05:00

"She was beat with a belt"
after the consequences had been
passed out by me
the afternoon before

Of course there were marks—
bruises on the back of her legs
while she mistakenly asked to meet
immigration
rather than protective services

The police were called
to hear her story--
to record the official
documentation
to be stored
in a computer

These little tragedies
piling up
like laundry

this afternoon, so ordinary
and forgettable
seared into
memory

the winter sun
slipping under
the classroom blinds

Poetry Thursday: Geographical Equation

2007-01-31T22:55:00.000-05:00

The theme for Poetry Thursdayis to use mathematical language to create a poem...potentially in the form of a proof. I have suffered from severe math anxiety since the sixth grade which continued until I became an English major and could no long be bothered with anything mathematical. However, just these past few months, I've had to start teaching math (gasp!). Thankfully a professor from a local college is working with our staff and I keep saying, "Why didn't anyone show it to me this way?"

I may be starting a journey of learning to love math.

My poem this week is a pretty rough draft, but I've enjoyed playing around with math words. It's a prompt that came at a perfect time.

Geographical Equation

Let x equal a compass
spinning like a whirligig—
the faithfulness of north
always in your palm.

Let this be the point
that tethers you to the globe--
as your seesaw heart
creaks up and down.

You may zigzag the
latitude and longitude
always looking to
the next shoulder of land
or elbowed cove,
craters like the inside
of your knees

walking the circumference
of the world will only be
the beginning of infinity

the pebbles you gather
from every continent
to rest in your pocket

keeping your fingertip
on home.

AIDS Awareness

2007-01-29T19:55:00.000-05:00

Friday morning, after a long week
of missed snow, houses guests and
a deep, deep cold
we had morning assembly
with just the 5th to 8th graders--
a mind-numbing power point
in non-kid friendly language
to educate them on AIDS
“transmission is from blood to blood
contact, breast milk, and anal, oral
or vaginal sex” the nurse droned.

I saw the mouths of 6th grade boys
drop to their knees.

At the end, there were no questions
and I could only assume that either:
they had no clue what she was talking about, or
the questions would come later.

They were barely done copying homework
when Yasmin raised her hand.
“So…what’s oral, anal and vaginal sex?”
She was paying attention.

This catapulted us
into the day with a jolt
where I was suddenly covering
a curriculum ranging from
tampons to farm animals
(what happens if you have sex
with a person who had sex
with an animal? one ten year old asked)

There are some questions you are never prepared for.

But this is the territory
of minds trying to make sense
from the daily craziness of the world
dragging these uprooted questions
like radishes
out into the yellow light.

This is What Democracy Looks Like...

2007-01-28T10:21:00.000-05:00

Or it's one way that it looks.

After a long week, I very nearly didn't go to DC yesterday for the march against the war. But it seemed a small thing to do considering. Here's some of the sights I saw. We especially enjoyed the band: saxophone, clarinet, harmonica, some drums and...a frying pan! Wish I could have captured the audio too.

Poetry Thursday: Echo

2007-01-17T22:36:00.000-05:00

This week's Poetry Thursday challenge was to use the line from another Poetry Thursday participant. I chose a line from L. Monique, "there is certain holiness in repetition" @ http://lthepoet.wordpress.com from The Swallow Project: a guide to consuming obsessions

(I have just switched from using a PC to a Mac and am having trouble with hyperlinks. Can anyone help?)

Echo

there is certain holiness in repetition—

not just the liturgy circling a year
or the bent prayers laid
on new coffins

not just the constancy
of multiplication

or four legs
on a chair

the tides marking
each hour in shattered shells

toenails growing
unstoppable

these patterns, we remember

mark them in tallies
on the muscular wall
of our heart

count them like promises

this is what we live for

The Breath

2007-01-15T21:41:00.000-05:00

This poem is of course inspired by William Carlos Williams' poem "The Red Wheelbarrow". However, the class across the hall from me just wrote imitation poems with topics like "so much depends on a chicken box" and "so much depends on the ketchup" which had me thinking of topics. While at yoga the other night, I decided so much depends upon the breath. Here's my contribution to a Williams imitation.

The Breath

so much depends
upon
the breath

skating
through a stiff
lung

to lean
against
a bony
spine

Poetry Thursday: The Dead Line

2007-01-10T22:03:00.000-05:00

Today’s Poetry Thursday topic had to do with clichés. I was not feeling inspired until this afternoon in class when I heard Daya telling one of her group members that they had to work hard on their Science project so they could meet the Wednesday deadline. “Dead?” Teya said, aghast. “You shouldn’t talk like that!” Daya tried to explain that it was a due date, but Teya wasn’t catching on. I started thinking about a dead line. It’s not a cliché, but it is interesting to think about the word derivation. Here’s my playful attempt at a poem.

The Dead Line

Lying jagged on the floor
panting for a last breath,
banished from the textbook
and its home between ray and segment

Who killed the line?

Vicious scissors
tasting the iron power of
breaking infinity?

Maybe it was the circle or curly-q
wishing for the length of an endless sidewalk
maybe the perpendicular line decapitated it
in a frazzled rush, maybe it was vehicular
manslaughter on the daily commute

And what do we do now?

A whole universe left with
curves
spirals
arcs—
even the chairs creak low
on saggy knees
light spines bow
like pinky
snail shells.

This avalanche of form—

the silence
as we press our cheeks
to the fading tile floor.

From Greensboro

2007-01-08T20:59:00.000-05:00

The twins stopped by to say hello and happy new year
and tell about Lawanna, who is popular, and Lawanda,
who is not and about the knife Lawanda brought to school
and the ten days of suspension and all the books
they haven’t been reading ‘cause they do worksheets instead.

I shake my head and say, “You KNOW better.
Don’t ever take a knife to school, do you know what could
happen?” I scold and fuss, purse my lips
imagine their story a sharp documentary—
compelling characters and one bad choice.

They know, they know, they know it was a bad idea
for Lawanda to hold it for Lawanna who was just going
to show it to some other girl and scare her. Of course they know
but they are newly thirteen
they could balance the world on the tip of a finger
their hearts purple and brave
and this, their only protection.

There is only today
bright and strong
without tomorrow.

The Land of Cheese

2007-01-07T21:29:00.000-05:00

I have just returned from a trip to Minneapolis to visit my friend K. We took a little roadtrip to Madison, Wisconsin where I was able to experience the passion for cheese in little roadside stops. I am passionate for cheese myself so I really appreciated these outposts. I also witnessed the phenomenon of indoor waterslides. We passed through Wisconsin Dells, which seemed to be a Las Vegas for families, with water slides rather than casinos. There was an actual water slide which looped outside the resort and then back inside again. These wonders of the midwest that I never knew. Tomorrow I return to my teaching life. I am wistful that these vacation days are so quickly over.

End of Year Tally

2007-01-01T21:39:00.000-05:00

“As of last night, 274 people had died by homicide in Baltimore…”
- The Baltimore Sun, January 1, 2007

We hover in the upper 200’s
with the yearly index published of the dead
more men than women
more black than white
42 victims per 100,000

We watch the news--the crusty blood,
the yellow tape, the handguns
we can hardly crane our necks
to the other side of the world
where the bodies pile up
we can hardly change the compass
of our thoughts
when the cousins and uncles
are shooting and shot out
when the children are tight-fisting the faded obituaries

We work to make a difference
they shout from the trenches
What we’re doing, isn’t working
and we don’t know what to do

We want to throw up our hands,
run far away, bury our heads
in nostalgia

There is only tomorrow
steel and permanent

We hardly dare
to hope

What Every Girl Needs

2006-12-30T16:17:00.000-05:00

a compost!

My sister made this for me as a Christmas gift. A perfect way for the urban household to compost (and guaranteed to keep the rats out!) I was planning to try my hand at gardening this spring...now I can spend the winter collecting coffee grounds and egg shells and strips of newspaper to prepare. Some gifts, are truly perfect.

Vet's Wife and Homeless

2006-12-28T20:48:00.000-05:00

She’s standing on a corner
her cardboard sign in thin letters
looking like she could be ahead
of me in line at Target. Just a pink coat
and a flimsy sign, no vet missing
half a leg, all her teeth.

I wonder where her husband is
wonder if he’s on a couch somewhere watching
T.V. waiting for Rhonda
to come home with some pocket change.
They’ll head to the movies,
shake their heads at all the poor saps
who handed over coins.

These are the stories I create--
my yellow reassurance
so I can shake my head and drive forward
without a thought to the night
that drifts in like a black tide.

But it’s all just good fiction
mine and theirs.

That our shoulders could touch
in this grey world while we slide
past with slanted eyes, wondering
what will save us.

Poetry Thursday: The Streets

2006-12-27T19:51:00.000-05:00

CBS.CBS.CBS
is scrawled across the playground wall
in loopy letters, on torn notebook paper
crumpled in balls, across the windows
shuttered by cinderblocks in the lost
brick houses.

Calhoun. Baker. Stricker.
Calhoun. Baker. Stricker.

This trio of streets
makes a crooked U
a territory, a calling card
Whoa CBS the kids chant
beats falling off their hands
like the skip of an irregular heart.

This is home
this spot on the map
a strand of hair on a head
compared to the rest of
the wide and glorious world.

No one needs the Mississippi
or the Amazon, no one dreams
of France or Nepal.
These distant specks could be
Mars or Atlantis
so out of reach
from everyday hands.

But there will be some
who crave a slit of sky
trace the constellations
with an index finger
stroking the curve
of the earth.

CBS

This is the world.
This is the beginning.

It Could Happen

2006-12-11T18:49:00.000-05:00

It could happen anytime, tornado,
earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen.
...
It could you know. That's why we wake
and look out-- no guarantees
in this life.
- William Stafford

It could happen
that you return from work
on a sunny, winter day
expecting to take
your children to the park
but instead your son,
only three years old,
is dead.

It could happen
that a car hits
your baby boy in his stroller
drags him down the street
knocks your mother over
and speeds away.

This morning could be your
last good-bye. Your last
I love you.

It could happen
in a moment or tomorrow
or fifty years from now.

Nothing is promised.

We ease back into this
treacherous world
and grab what we love
with white knuckles.

It is not forever.

This filmy life
slides right through our fingers
we hope for the chance
to say
thank you.

________________________________________

This story has been weighing on my heart the past week and a half as it happened to one of my colleagues. The poem is probably too dramatic and sentimental, but how do you write about the death of a healthy three year old run over by a car? The injustice of it stings and I can only wonder at this world we live in. But Stafford's line kept popping into my head, "...no guarantees/ in this life." No guarantees. I can only hope to live more appreciatively of the blessings in my own life while I think and pray for this family who has been struck by the worst.

Poetry Thursday: Histories of Houses

2006-11-29T17:44:00.000-05:00

The neighborhood and city that I live in has many abandoned houses. In fact, the house I live in was abandoned until our recent renovation. I often think about the lives of these houses, their history, their demise. I believe in their resurrection. Somehow this poem took on more than I intended. My attempt at this week's topic, If these walls could speak...

Histories of Houses

It's 1900.
Row houses spring up
like flashcards in red brick
and link elbows
open their narrow doors to families--
who rush in with their lavender dreams
and cram the stoops
on warm summer evenings.
The whole city leans back
glimpsing the too blue sky.

The trees stretch tall and
the children have grandchildren
who skip to the corner store
for handfuls of candy.
They bring in formstone
to cover the cracking brick
and push back the years.

But then it's the drugs--
and the uncles fading
away to the grey streets
the stealing of the copper piping
from the shut-eyed basement windows.
That's when the leaving begins
the packing up of the station wagons
to drive to the suburbs to find a
new life

The grandchildren's children
glance over their shoulders
as they hustle to school each morning.
In art, they paint planks
with pinky curtains and
turquoise dahlias
to frame the many empty windows
For hope the officials beam

These skeletons--
sagging and leaning
hold the story of a century
and look at tomorrow.

A Recipe

2006-11-28T20:36:00.000-05:00

After a decade of take out
I had three cooking lessons
to unlock the mystery of
Indian food.

I held the salt in my hand
to feel the weight
tried to replicate the
heft of mustard seed
in the crook of my palm.
I hoped the voices of
Indian aunties would
whisper secrets
passed through generations
reaching across the continents
floating into my slick kitchen
breaking through the modern hum
of the silver dishwasher.

I want stories from
across the ocean
from the dusty fires
and the banks of the Ganges
I want the ancient pot
and the mortar and pestle
dented and nicked.
This is the magic I need
added to my airtight
tupperware and shiny steel pot.

I will never have this.

But I can reach a fingertip
across the geography of the world
and learn the taste
of one small village.
I'll carry it home
like buried treasure.

The Unraveling

2006-11-21T18:11:00.000-05:00

Bria is peeling off her skin
in strips, like an orange
from the tip of her index finger
across the canyon of her palm
scattering the refuse across her desk
like a thin curl of pencil shavings

That the skin can come off
with just a thumbnail is a puzzle
it is all that connects the insides
these muscles, bones, veins--
the very center the very heart
could tumble onto the floor
if this gauze disappears

One more layer and there will be
a prick of blood waiting, she convinces herself
this will be her smoky red earth
her something strong her something
good this will be her root
she digs like a child looking for China

there's not one scarlet drop

All this fragility
this is all we have

Touchpoint

2006-11-14T21:32:00.000-05:00

Emerald E.
is tall like a streetlight
on the corner
with squinted eyes
he looks at you
as if
he could take on
the toughest
guys on the block
his pride
wide as all his
thirteen years
hugging thin ankles

but there he is
slouched at a desk
reading the diary
of a girl on the
Oregon Trail
whose grandfather's
dead body
washed down
the Mississippi

the lost fathers
and grandfathers
reaching across the prairie
across the century
piercing through time
to whisper their message

You are not alone.

Poetry Thursday: The Granola Bars

2006-11-09T18:23:00.000-05:00

They hide in the closet
as all-purpose sustenance

for empty bellies
in the morning,
to calm nerves
before the test,
for the field trip
when the bus
might be late

Many a day
I hear
my stomach hurts
and we always try
a granola bar
before the nurse

usually it works

It seems a small token
hardly enough
to cover up
the thousand reasons
a child might
start the day
hungry.

Such a fragile
offering, a crippled
tool that will never
be the mortar
any person needs
to stand tall
over time.

At nights I dream
of muscular strength
and magic wands
that could change
the crooked wrongs
of this grey world

but at daybreak
my only slim powers
are granola bars
waiting

A Vote

2006-11-07T21:54:00.000-05:00

I walked two blocks
this afternoon
through crinkled leaves and
old litter, past
shut-eyed houses and
faded murals
to a worn
community center.

I know the many things
that no politician
will ever change
in one election cycle,
they clatter
against my ribs
on a long, thin chain.

I do not expect miracles
from any of these
flesh and bone men.

But on a day like today
when the nation
stretches with wide palms
reaching

I left my vote
on the table
and a spiky hope
followed me
home.

On the Hazards of Securing Tylenol

2006-11-01T18:14:00.000-05:00

Could you check Teya out?
I asked the camp nurse
I think she's just homesick
but want to be sure.

This was the same nurse
who I had gone to
a day before
asking to hold an asthma inhaler
for Angel because she was stressing
that she didn't have it.

Nope Ms. Nurse had clipped
The doctor didn't check this box here.
In an emergency you can call me and
I'll zip right there.

It's a good thing Ms. Nurse doesn't know
about all the inhalers I have in my desk
for a variety of students
which were given via parent
rather than checked box.
I tried to roll my eyes
without Angel noticing.

101 Ms. Nurse pronounces
and begins to call up
the three page medical form
that parents had to fill out
before children could
enter the camp.

I was feeling a little bad
that I'd misdiagnosed
the homesickness and was
about to return to the rest
of my flock when the assistant
said, Just hang on, so we can take
care of a few things here.

So they call her mom who isn't home
and move on to her grandmother.
I'm going to fax you a paper to sign
Ms. Nurse Assistant is saying
so that we can give Teya some Tylenol
do you have a fax? (no)
could you go to the school? (no)
At the grandmother's suggestion
Ms. Nurse Assistant solemnly asks,
Will you sign the sheet? Are you okay with that?

Um yes. It's TYLENOL!
If I had some with me
I'd slip Teya a pill now.

But I don't
so I sign.

Next, Ms. Nurse Assistant
must call the doctor to get permission to administer the tylenol
I wonder why they are paying an RN for this job
when you can't do anything without making a call.

This takes approximately 25 minutes
of calling a clinic, getting disconnected,
being connected to the wrong person,
and waiting for human contact
while I eye the cabinet and calculate my odds
of stealing the tylenol
and giving it to her myself.

But finally, the verbal consent comes through
350 milligrams Ms. Nurse says.
And if her fever doesn't go down,
I can't give her anymore.
I think she's probably going to need more than that

To me,
this is the hazard of living
where we have too much
when there's a little girl
with a simple fever and we can't just walk
across the room, to solve the problem.

We are in the land of plenty
with every resource
sitting on the shelf
waiting
for action.

Going to Camp

2006-10-15T14:20:00.000-04:00

On Monday
I'll get on the bus
with my class
to spend the week
in the woods.
All last week they chanted
wecan'twaitwecan'twait
while I start my packing today
with less enthusiasm
wishing I could add some
patience and a soaring spirit
in with my extra pair
of socks.
They will love their week
and I will try to love it
with them.

Poetry Thursday: Conversion

2006-10-12T18:23:00.000-04:00

The Poetry Thursday theme of the week is to write about something in the news. I've been consumed by reading Taylor Branch's first volume of America in the King Years this past month so I've decided to use that as inspiration instead. This is a first go at it.

Conversion

When I hear stories
of Martin Luther King
I imagine glue
on his fingertips
duct tape trailing
behind his feet
dispensing the materials
that holds things together
and over his head
a grey bubble
containing his words
unity
non-violence
protest
justice
and the beam
of a spotlight
glimmering on his lapels.

But he was just a man
falling into a moment
that grew into a
movement
where after the singing
there was politics
disharmony
infighting
among the people on the side
of the righteous
and clarity
was a haze in the distance.

This is the story--
that justice can spring forward
despite ordinary people
that we don't have to be
special
called
ordained
that we don't know the future
and change may happen
when the spokes of the world
touch in just the right way
and we, the moving objects
may be
the inception.

Taste

2006-10-11T22:22:00.000-04:00

I finished my story...
can I write something else?

Three different fifth grade girls
asked this question today
as if asking for a third dessert

as if I would say no...
no more writing for you today
it's back to eating vegetables
and unearth some ancient workbook
from the back of a closet

Sure, I tell them
You can write some more
smiling behind my eyes
because they've tasted
language like chocolate
words like hot cheetos
you shove in your mouth
till your tongue burns
like hot sauce

Crave it like junk food
I mutter to myself

This is just one door
in your tenth year of life
to the whole of the world

breathe the air
it's like sugar
dive in

Afterhours

2006-10-09T20:55:00.000-04:00

It was a long Monday
after a beautiful weekend
in Minneapolis
seeing friends
now scattered
across the nation and world
and after a late arrival
a friend's lost luggage
and a morning
without coffee
our day was prickly
my patience thin
my girls shifting
slowly
unwillingly
into the
stiff requirements
of a school day
and more than once
words slipped out
the cave of my mouth
that I should have
fastened behind the dam
of my tongue.

But at the end of the day
three little girls
asked to stay behind
to use the computers
so they could work ahead.

It is this hour
between five and six
when we sit together
in the grace
of a finished day
the agenda complete
the giggles welcome.

This is the time of
our second chances.

Finishing Touches

2006-10-02T21:53:00.000-04:00

It was just this past week
that our kitchen was complete.
After waiting and waiting and
running to the basement for water
to make coffee in the morning
our counters arrived.
Within a day
they were joined by the
sink and dishwasher
hooked up by our
grouchy plumber.

I spent the weekend cooking.
I'm smitten.

Crossing Over

2006-09-20T18:37:00.000-04:00

The after-gym-drama was that
Jenae told Tyra's friends that
they should tell her that
her arm pits stank
and she should get herself some deodorant.

This information came to me
in requests for meetings in the hall
so feelings could be expressed
appropriately rather than in front
of the class.

But I didn't hear from Tyra.

So at the end of the day
I asked if we could talk
only saying How was gym?
and the tears were
slipping down her face.

This is ten going on eleven
going on twelve to thirteen
this minefield of relationships
and though we've been
talking talking talking
about how to treat each other
some moments keep returning

I wonder--
is this life for every girl growing up?
her rite of passage
her notice of the moment
when an adult can only hug you
tell you those girls were wrong
do you want me to talk to them?
when of course she will shake her head
no no no
of course not that

the loneliness
cool and black
like taking a kickball
in the face.

The First Week

2006-09-17T18:44:00.000-04:00

by the second day
we were writing poems

drawing a red
heart
in the center
of the first clean
notebook page
mining our topics

no rhyme
not yet

our dreams and fears
our memories
our sadness

this is our beginning
our trying to become
a family of sorts

we'll celebrate
the victories
and get on each
other's last nerve

our year is newly
cracked open
pale and white
stretching out
like a year
waiting for the
prose
of the days
to follow

Prologue

2006-09-06T18:35:00.000-04:00

This is the conception
of a new address
the settling in
to wide blank rooms
finding places
for books and plates
beds and a piano
the start of a story
in this rowhouse
on this street
in this silver city.

This is the seed
of a fresh school year
the desks huddling together
waiting
ready to awaken life
again
the shelves organized
the closets heavy
with markers and gluesticks
notebooks and crayons
yellow pads of paper
scribbled with ideas
for the first day
the second day
the days and days
to follow
of unwritten prose.

This is the beginning
crisp and new
the whole world
a possibility.

The Final Push

2006-08-22T17:01:00.000-04:00

We are working like crazy this week
so we can move into our house on Sunday.
Some pictures are about all I have time for!

Before laying the floor...

During the laying of the floor...

Hopefully there will soon be an after shot!

Poetry Thursday: Finding Donnisha

2006-08-17T09:49:00.000-04:00

I da know, Donnisha replies
to my every question.

We're in the car--
I'm her teacher
trying to understand this hard
skinny girl
with the spiky guards
around her green bud heart.

I stack questions on the dashboard.
I da know, I da know, I da know
and I want to reach
across the chasm of our lives
our worlds
our continents apart
in the same small city.
I want to tell her to blaze
out like a sunflower
in a weedy garden
on this hot summer day.

In the parking lot,
she grabs my hand.
I soften to blue

believing we can all step small
believing we can all
lean into the light.

City Girl in the Suburbs

2006-08-15T22:15:00.000-04:00

gets her wallet stolen

at yoga.

Yes, I left my bag
in the dressing room.
Yes, I should know better.

I live fanatically by such rules as:
Always lock.
Leave nothing on car seats.
Leave nothing in the car at all
unless you can part with it.

I just thought it was okay.
It was YOGA.
In the suburbs.
C'mon.
Who is going to slip into your bag
like light through a crack
while you lay breathing on the floor
to carry off a wallet
stuffed with receipts and
teacher discount cards?

This is my profiling
of suburban yogis
counting this geography
of the world
as safe.

But we are all of this world.

Tomorrow
I'll put down my paint brush
to do penance
at the hands
of bureacracy
and count my losses
in the nearly finished sandwich punches
the Starbucks gift card
and wait patiently
for the shiny new credit cards
to slide through
the slot in my door.

Sticks and Stones

2006-08-12T20:27:00.000-04:00

after a long day of
coating doors with
polyurethane
i'm driving down
Pitcher Street--
a sad old street
of empty houses
midway between
the new house and
current apartment

right at the corner
by shake 'n bake
(the roller rink)
i'm waiting at a stop sign
enjoying the cool air
the sun fading orange
when--

KUH-RACK

a rock hits
my rear triangle window
(the expensive one)

what! i say to myself
my teacher have you lost your mind?!?!?
voice revving up

checking the rearview mirror
i see a cluster of boys
between 9 and 12
in a small pack
so i move into reverse
while forming
a small sermon on
why not to throw
rocks at car windows

they all take off
running into the alley
while my window--
a spiderweb of cracked glass
creaks like too cold icicles

i guess i could have parked
confronted them on foot
just to look them in the eye
and say that was wrong

but this is just another day
just another car rolling by
the blue police light
blinking a staccato warning above
the block deserted
except for an aimless band of kids

what is it that makes a person?
is it the long reach at the
too high clouds
to stuff your mouth full of
cotton-candy dreams?
or is it that you are where you are
windows boarded
torn screens
houses who gasped a last
breath years ago

for a realist
this is life

what's another broken window?

Poetry Thursday: Girl Sleuth

2006-08-10T10:00:00.000-04:00

I loved the topic of today's Poetry Thursday, unfinshed conversations. I had lots of ideas but ended up revising an old poem about a conversation I wanted to finish.

Girl Sleuth

Sometimes I'm Nancy Drew--
prowling through your closet
rummaging in your drawers
touching objects like Braille
to uncover you.

I feel along your forehead and gently
tap your skull, searching for the secret
panel which will spring open
on a creaky hinge
and solve your mystery.

I'm not looking for Ned Nickerson's blank
intimacy of the clues you toss out--
sealed envelopes to be steamed open
fractured fingerprints scattered across
the kitchen counter
but a key--
which will open your doors
and take me up the hidden 99 stairs.

This life does not
find endings
in final chapters
but stretches across
a thousand days
like a circle of months
twirling into the
dark night.

Having a Toilet

2006-08-08T21:28:00.000-04:00

you take it for granted
but after monitoring water
planning lunch breaks
around the rest room
walking up the street
to school to use
the lavatory
this is the moment

We named August 26
THE DAY
to move
and so
I paint and sand
through the npr
line-up
with one eye
anchored
on the future.

The living room and kitchen in progress...

Home Depot Doesn't Care

2006-08-06T22:03:00.000-04:00

...a man wrote
in thick black marker
on peach copy paper
in the flooring department
of the Lansdowne Home Depot
and tacked it to the 20% off
window treatments sign

then he scrawled,
"There is no one here
to help you!"
and left it laying on the empty desk
in protest

We did wait 45 minutes for
someone to help us cut
the threshold for our bathroom
which when completed
had ridges and valleys
due to a dull blade
and we could not take it with us.

We did ask the three guys
standing around
in the appliance department
for help
and they said that
isn't our area, you gottta
go to the flooring person

We did ask the flooring person
who was pinballing from
customer to customer
and then disappearing.

We did watch the lady
buying carpet, who had waited
even longer than us,
ask for a manager
and there was no manager
but someone eventually came
to cut two feet
off a roll.

No one moved the signs.

Perhaps we should have joined in
grabbing markers and pamphlets
and speaking our minds
a flurry of words
littering the vacant desk
screaming out
into the flourescent din--

not to go unnoticed.

To the Beach

2006-07-30T09:15:00.000-04:00

to breathe the salty air
and read lots of books
and be thankful

Poetry Thursday: The Art of Eating (While Renovating a House)

2006-07-26T23:15:00.000-04:00

Weekends of Chickfilet
Five Guys burgers
Cafe Mocha chicken salad sandwiches
take out Indian food from the buffet
loaded into styrofoam containers
and eaten over days

The pizza--
leftover
frozen
reheated
the shriveled green peppers
counting as nutrition

These nights I dream
a thin line of green beans
a curly vine arching
from the weight
of a single tomato

as if every good desire
could be filled
by this earth

Laundromat

2006-07-25T14:38:00.000-04:00

It is the thought of going which is the worst
the piling of clothes into baskets and bags
the multiple trips down the three
flights of stairs
the finding of underwear
or a stray sock
that's lost its way
crouching on a public landing
while I mumble
all i want is a washing machine
over and over to myself.

But once in the car
I think about my blessings
the arms
the legs
the hands
that helped me carry

how I take it all for granted

The clothes spin
I read my book
ignore the five different channels
clattering for attention
and rest in this intersection
of different lives
our dirty laundry
our different stories
meeting for a morning
brushing up against
stained sheets and
sour baby clothes
outside the private darkness
of basements
where bras flip and twist
lonely
in their quiet den

missing the act of revelation

Circle

2006-07-22T18:22:00.000-04:00

twoandahalflonghours we spent
listening to names
perfect attendance and
academic achievement and
academic improvement and
leadership and character and
speeches from the eighth graders
moving on to high school and
thankyous to the volunteers
and helpers and staff and
this is the ending
kids make the milestone
complete the grade, move on
from year to year
climb the swaying rope ladder
to adulthood, mark each step
along the way in final celebrations
each grade forward a notch of success
and you send them off hoping
they keep journeying
keep being a little of the person
you know right now
no matter how grownup
they become
this is the goodbye
and this is the looking
to September

Poetry Thursday: Crouching Poems

2006-07-20T08:40:00.000-04:00

I was working on a poem this week but it did not come to fruition. I decided to unearth an old attempt at a love poem from many years ago.

She fell in love with a deaf boy
and finger-spelled her way
across empty space
her thumbnail pulling knots
from his flailing heart
gently scrawling sounds
from lip to ear
in the curve of her palm
words
recklessly tumble
into his lap as she
spells Bach and jazz
across his chest
they sing
for the poems
crouching
in the hollow
of his
ear

Floor Committment

2006-07-18T20:59:00.000-04:00

Yesterday we bought a floor
to put over the plywood
separating our stories.

A floor means we're almost home.
It means a next chapter.

Then we met with the guy at Lumber Liquidators.

We pulled out the birch planks
that had been chosen--
researched by
pricecolorsize
laid it on the counter
a perfect hand.

Ya really gotta baby your floor Mr. Helpful intoned
Ya can't just put any old cleaner on there
No cheap wood polish
No pets
No heavy traffic
Ya should clean it 'bout once a day

Seriously? Clean the floor once a day?
Does anyone do that?

Did you clean those samples today, my husband smiled

Oh, not today he replied

It made me wonder about all the houses and houses
with wood on the floor
resting there
year after year
while feet march
through birthdays and
Christmas mornings,
evenings of sorrow
and snow tracked in
on a winter afternoon.

A dent, a scrape
a history of life lived.
A floor sees it all.
Supports the everyday.

So we're taking the plunge
starting our house story
laying down birch
crossing our fingers.

(We bought the special cleaner.)

Second Home

2006-07-17T18:58:00.000-04:00

"After all, we all want our names called
through the streets all evening; we all want
to be lost, and looked for, and found again..."

- Maggie Anderson, "What We Want"

My mom's sending us away
to live in North Carolina
Lawanda reported the other week
We'll be leaving before the end of school.

The twins, Lawanda and Lawanna,
have been headache and heartache
little girls shining
stumbling
making their way
precariously
in this tough world.

On Friday we said our good-byes
scribbling phone numbers, addresses
Thank you, Lawanda said dramatically
Thank you for being there for me.
This has been like my second home.

But what's a second home?

You're just one face in the crowd
and you're always second to the
lesson or the test or the day's
everyday drama.
We teach you to read and write
a poem--
hoping that will
bridge the thin pain
this life passes out.

But a second home
can't follow you across miles
threading the phone lines
with kind words.
It doesn't roadtrip on your graduation
to hear your name.

It sits on this corner
waiting
for your return
with whatever news
of life
a prodigal child
might bring.

May you find home

again.

On Hearing of the Death of Mr. Lay

2006-07-13T19:28:00.000-04:00

"'Apparently, his heart simply gave out,' said Lay's pastor"
The Baltimore Sun, July 5, 2006 in response to the death of Kenneth Lay

What makes a man's heart stop?
clogged arteries?
fear of prison?
or might it be--
admission?

do you wake up one morning
and after drinking coffee
realize you're wearing
the emperor's clothes?

it's time to abdicate the throne
and all those stories you told
the others and yourself
ring dull like tin?

is this the status of hearts?
after the fancy houses and the being at the top
after the hoarding up of pensions and the yachts
and the stock and the holding of others
every day life
do the palpitations start?

does the heart just stop?

or does it shrink
from a frizzled yarn knot
to a tangle on a thread
to the snag
which just won't fit
through a needle

and then it
disappears

Poetry Thursday: The Scent of Feet

2006-07-12T22:14:00.000-04:00

I think writing a humorous poem is incredibly difficult. I was going to give up the challenge when I thought about how much my students LOVE funny poems. It's the biggest poetry hook. So I read through a book of Shel Silverstein for inspiration (he makes it seem so effortless!) and decided to give it a try.

We've had this odd happening in my classroom of late where kids pull off their shoes and smell them during the day. Multiple kids. Multiple times. I find this odd and have made ridiculous mandates like, "There will be no smelling of feet in class!" It has yet to work. So I'll share this attempt at a funny poem with them instead.

The Scent of Feet

Keep your shoes on your feet!
the teacher would repeat.
At this age your toes
should not be near your nose!

But we love our pheremones
and we cannot help but sniff
to get a little whiff
of the grubby, mossy funk.

We’re taken with the gunk
of old sneaker lumps
jelly shoe crud
some two-day-old sock.

So we know that it is crass
but we cannot help ourselves
from inhaling the perfume
of our toes
in class.

Upon Meeting a Poet at the Barnes and Noble Cafe

2006-07-10T21:41:00.000-04:00

Can I write you a poem?
I notice you have a lot of interesting books.

Um. Sure. I guess.

I did have a pile--
15 potential books
to add to my classroom library
a resource book on how
to teach discussion
and a few odd volumes of poetry.

I believe everyone should have a poem
written about them at least once.
So I go to books stores and cafes
and write poems for people.

I'm for more poetry in the world...
I can participate in this.

What continues is a fairly awkward interview--
the poet asks me questions
I give guarded answers
and realize that, poetry or not,
I really just want
to be left alone with my books
not sharing my life with the cafe poet
as he takes notes.

What are you drinking?

Iced tea.

What kind of iced tea?

Green tea.

Well that's interesting.

I didn't really think so.

But then again,
perhaps we all need wandering poets
slipping in and out of our lives
waiting to post a poem over an ad
for a Barnes and Noble
chocolate cupcake.
Maybe we should all be finding
poems in garbage cans and
file cabinets. Refrigerators and
sock drawers and green tea.

The poem written for me:

Emily says the children she reaches
Are the main reason she teaches.
I easily picture her leading
Fifth graders to the world of reading.

-Marc 5 July '06

Housework

2006-07-09T21:33:00.000-04:00

I spent the day at multiple Home Depots
from one
to another
and back to the original one
to procure counter
vanity
faucets
sink
Our house
is beginning to come
together.

Our new lights and ceiling fan

The bathroom floor I grouted on Saturday

A view from a back window

Poetry Thursday: The Invisible Village

2006-07-06T14:03:00.000-04:00

Ellie is poor, says Nisha
of a character in our book.
She is not, Lawanda counters.
She is like me and my family
And we are not poor.

Who lengthens the spine
to the neck to
gaze in the mirror
saying—

I am poor.
I have nothing.
I lost my childhood to these streets.
Hope ran off with my single dream.
I see war on my front stoop.
I might be the next recruit.

This is the invisible village.

There will be no calvary,
no host of angels.
There will be no boot-strap assistance.

No.

But a girl may peek out
her back bedroom window
notice the perseverance of
a thin green vine and
find a downpour
of words
falling
to a blank page.

Consider how much we have been given
in this empty land.

. . . . . . . . . .

(This is still a work in progress. I stumbled upon the phrase "invisible village" in a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye and thought it spoke to the neighborhood where I work.)

Good Girl Porn

2006-07-05T16:09:00.000-04:00

In teaching
you never know what's
gonna come at you.

Today it was porn.

My fifth grade girls
were passing around
a Hustler DVD
peppered with women--
bare breasts
legs wide open.

I called Shaya into the hall
when I found it in her possession.

It's not mine.
It's my friend's friend who brought it.

And that would be...

Oh no, my drama queen continued
I'm not gonna give up their names.

Well. I guess you're responsible then.

Okay. I'll tell you.
She buckled in mere moments.
I got it from Yasmine
who got it from Brita.
She brought it from home.

This was questionable intel
since Brita is the good girl.
She would be hands-down voted
least likely girl to bring porn
and pass it in class.

But during independent reading
Brita asked if she could speak to me
out in the hall.
Could you shut the door?
she whispered tentatively.

And she admirably explained
that yes, she had brought the DVD from home.
Her and Yasmine had seen it at her house
and Yasmine talked her into bringing it to school.

Sometimes a good girl's
got to change up her image.

I can't satiate
the curiosity of my eleven year olds
about sex and love
as their lives have made them
older than their years.
But I know there is a
knotty little girl heart
down deep.

Take your time
Take your time
Don't rush
Don't rush

I whisper out into the emptiness
of my classroom at the end of the day
hoping these words will settle
on the shoulders of girls

fighting to be women.

America at Jolly's

2006-07-04T19:59:00.000-04:00

I said put the chicken in longer--
I hate it when it's cold.
Don't you even know how
to make a sandwich?

This was lunchtime at Jolly's
the little convenience store
a few blocks over from
our new house.
It's half imitation 7-11
and half Subway--
both surrounded in
bullet proof glass.

Jolly's is never my first choice
of food. But it was a long day
working in our house.
Jolly's is located in a
segregated black neighborhood,
operated by Pakistanis,
serving a primarily black clientele
and occaisionally a white woman (me)
who has been given, at times,
a 10% discount on food.

I believe this discount is given
because I'm white.

For awhile I had a Jolly's boyfriend
who would ask for my phone number
and give me free veggie sandwiches.
I'm married!
I'd yell through the bullet proof glass
pointing at my wedding band
while the young Pakistani nodded
without accepting any cash.

For these reasons, I try not to
patronize Jolly's.
But today, easy won.

And on this unbearably hot July 4th
the proverbial melting pot--
was running over.

It was the guy in front of me
ordering the chicken sub.
Now put the chicken in the microwave
with the cheese on top.

-We don't put it in the microwave said the guy
behind the glass.

Well I want my cheese melted the customer ordered
his voice raising into a yell
My chicken's always cold and the cheese ain't melted!
Damn! Put that sandwich in the microwave.

-We can't put it in the microwave

Whadda ya mean you can't put it in the microwave!
Put that sandwich in the microwave and
melt my cheese!

I myself wondered why the microwave was cheese resistant
but wanted my fellow patron to chill out and
take it down a notch.

I just kept to myself
and yelled my order
of veggie on wheat
into the security booth.

The chicken sandwich went
into a toaster oven
and came out with melted cheese.

Meanwhile, the guy behind me
started to order his sandwich.
Twelve inch on white bread.

-We do not have white bread,
said the man behind the glass.
We have Italian bread.

I don't want Italian bread
gimme some white bread,

-The white bread is the Italian bread

Damn, just give me the white bread,
don't you all even know how
to make a sandwich.
Gimme what I want.

-Didn't you go to school? Don't you know
the Italian bread is the white bread?

I had now moved over to the beverage case
thinking this white bread guy
was really digging a hole--
nothing like starting a public shouting match
when you're wrong.
And nothing like egging him on.
It seemed clear what bread he wanted.

Yeah I went to school! You didn't go to school
in here makin' sandwiches and you can't
even make a sandwich. You don't know
who you messing with. I'll come back
in here with a piece and then let's see

He stormed out, sandwichless.

This is America.
On our day of celebration
of freedom and liberty.

Here is the consequence
of neighborhoods
segregated by race,
economically isolated
dialogue lost to the streets.

Here the air is thick and tense
Here is the collision of words
smacking against the safety glass
to ricochet in confusion.

Here is America.

The Gift

2006-07-03T21:37:00.000-04:00

Lawanda offered to come help me
on the house after school today.
We've been really trying to
push progress forward
over the weekend
and the 4th.

So I let Lawanda come
in the humid heat.
We picked up garbage
and I let her sand a door frame
paint a patch of wall
then clean the brushes
as we sweat
on the third floor.

This is the bounty
of being a teacher.

A twelve-year old
helping out with some
thankless work
on a hot summer afternoon
when a hydrant is
spewing water
just across the way.

These are the gifts you get
that get you through
those days that are trials
when Lawanda is a trial.

This is the thank you.
This is the gift.

The Cousins of Prison

2006-06-28T22:09:00.000-04:00

When I was little
I saw the world in black and white.
There were good guys and bad guys.
Good guys did the right thing and
the bad guys went to jail
where they belonged.

It was a simple way
to keep the world sorted.

Today in class,
I read a story called Your Move
about a ten-year-old kid
influenced by gang members.

We were discussing the characters
and there was an avalanche of stories
about family members in jail...
cousins, brothers, fathers
with a corresponding tale
of wrong place, wrong time.
Bad choices.
Bad influences.

I thought of my ten-year-old-self
carefully categorizing the world
with my confident vocabulary
of universal justice.

What words would I have used
had it been my cousin locked-up?
What neat definitions would I have used
to figure out right?

Because the kids I know
also know
that prisoner is just one label
a person gets along with
son and dad and uncle
and the so many other roles
any person takes in this life.

I can't help but wish
the kids I know had a childhood
to keep the mess and complications
of the world
at bay a little bit longer

As my room of girls
hurtles towards adolescence
I know they will all make bad choices
as any person does.
I only hope that the consequences
are not so dire
that a sixteen-year-old-self
can't recover.

We're born where we're born--
some of us learning
the nuances of this life over years.

Some of us visiting
our cousin in prison.