Where I'm From

I am from the written word,

From Hemmingway and Dickinson.

I am from the window in the kitchen—

A reflection of family dinners and a painting of children on swing sets,

(It felt more like a mirror than a window).

I am from the grass blades,

The lilac bush

Whose fragrant purple blossoms fall

and re-grow in spring.

I’m from the tuck-ins before dreams and the need to feel loved.

From Dawson and Saner.

I’m from the early risers

and the late arrivals.

From call me when you get there and

You can always come home.

I’m from the old oak pews of the church

With deep trenches

worn with verses from long ago.

I’m from the glitz of the Motor City and the shores of the Cayman Islands,

Peanut butter and jelly [without the peanut butter] and a hot dog [with only the bun,]

From the day Dad got

on one knee to ask Mom to

the day Jeff did the same for me.

On my dresser there is a journal:

pages of sunrays between clouds,

of the breeze after the rain.

I am these words—

a collection of verse—

snapshots of what has been and what will be.

June to June

The bright lights of Vegas are the
Loneliest places on earth.
Crowded streets,
Sweat,
People brushing and shoving
Their washed-up nylon dreams into
The comfort of another.
A coin in a slot.
Risking and
Wishing for luck.
For change.
To become someone new in
The color of neon.

Give me instead the
Quiet smell of coffee
And your cologne on
That morning before the rain.
A warm place to call my own.

Ride of Passage

Learning to ride a bike.
A rite of passage.
Ready or not, here I come.
Metal bars between my legs,
The feel of the slick vinyl on the banana seat.
But Jimmy’s bike is different than mine.
Mine is glittering red, two wheels now instead of four.
Tinseled handle bars blowing in the breeze—reflecting nature speeding by and
A delicate, white wicker basket for my flowers.
Jimmy’s bike is bigger.
His has a longer, straight bar
Made of steel,
Thick, treaded wheels,
Deep blue paint.
Because he’s stronger and will
Grow up more than me.
Because I am a girl.
That’s why mine sparkles in the sun and I have a basket for my flowers.
He will ride fast, and I will try to keep up.
We both learn to ride bikes.
But mine is different because I am a girl and
Jimmy is a boy.

Baby Shower

I'm a big girl today.
Today, I took a shower all by myself--because Mommy asked me.
She asked me and thinks I can do it.
I turned the frosted silver knob--not too hot she would say.
Be careful.
I am.

I'm a big girl today.
I made sure I washed every inch--twice.
I use soap and my scrub brush.
I let the water rinse me clean.
My skin is red and tingly.
I feel older.
I am.

I'm a big girl today.
When I turn the water off the cold air
Hits my skin.
I find my towel and my pajamas
Mommy laid out for me. I
Start to dry off the way Daddy showed me.
But I can do it now. Because I am big.
I hear Mommy on the phone.
She's sad.
I am too.

I'm a big girl today.
I hang up my towel and sit on my bed.
This is where I prayed to God for
A little brother. I prayed
so hard. Every night.
I am

Going to be a big sister again.
But Mommy's crying.
She said she has to go to the doctors with Daddy and
Grandma is coming over and I have to be a big girl and
Go to bed.
I do.

I'm a big sister once. But not twice.
Not anymore.
Mommy's baby is gone.
I feel older.
I am.

Ode to a Gluten-Free Romance

To Stephen, who couldn’t eat bread:

You were my first idea of love. A five year old little man of mystery. Freckles, a gap toothed grin: your cologne was the syrup from your breakfast that morning or the summer dirt from the t-ball field. You were Superman, GI Joe, maybe even Ken. We catapulted off couch cushions, climbed the rocky steep of the jungle gym, and skied down its slopes.
We rode a bright, ornate merry-go-round during those years. Orange and metallic-- it became a living kaleidoscope when our fathers would push us. We saw the world spinning around us, a collage of purple, green, blue and sunlight. We held on tight and laughed.
Your family moved away. And you went too. I remember thinking you would kiss me good-bye. In my mind, I would run out the front door of my house in my yellow sundress and watch your car ride away to your new far-away home. But Stephen, you never came back, and I forgot about you. And that’s ok, because in my mind, when we were spinning on the merry-go-round I knew what I wanted.
But for me, that merry-go-round stopped for a long time. It rusted from its idleness— the orange paint peeling and flaking off unto the dry ground. I stood at my front door many times though, in my yellow sundress, and said goodbye to a few others who took me further and further away from that fast-paced ride of my past.
But maybe I will one day return to that merry-go-round. And maybe someone will hop on with me and we will see the world in a collage of colors. And we will laugh and get dizzy. Maybe he won’t eat bread either.

Sticky Situations

There was always hope on Saturday mornings and it came in the form of a fluffy pancake. Dad would wake up and grind the coffee beans--each pulse releasing a delicate yet bold aroma in the still air. Mom would soon follow in her soft, oversized pink robe. Her wet hair freshly combed out of her face and her skin dewy and slick from her Oil of Olay.
There was no tension on Saturday mornings. The TV boasted Bugs Bunny and company and the dog was subdued by the couch. You were on the floor, prone, in your footed pajamas playing with an imagination that can only exist in a child's mind. You were an Indian princess, a silver wolf, the president. You were seven and in love. In love in the way that there were no schedules, no possibility for hurt. This was how it always was.
The call to breakfast awakens you into another fantasy. Warm, Bisquick pancakes fresh off the griddle. The butter sizzles and melts, the syrup coats the delicate dough with a sugary perfection. Your little sister uses her fork. The family is proud. Orange juice--sweet, sour and then the pulp: your biggest concern. Bacon, fried and crisp--crunches and breaks apart. Forks scraping, feet kicking, cups clanging. This is life on Saturday mornings.
What you don't see isn't important then. The mail from Friday in a pile by the microwave. The bills, the coupons to save ten cents off of a pound of ground beef. A blinking red on the message machine. Call the doctor's office. It's important. But it's not. Not on Saturday mornings. When the world is still for a little while. You are in your pajamas and your fingers are sticky.

The Meeting: An Introduction

I went to see you today. It's been a long time, hasn't it? It was just like how it used to be--it was easy. It was sort of like the time that Grandma bought you that little battery-operated dog for your fifth birthday. You know, the one that would shake, then flip backwards three times, and bark? Remember how you laughed? It was a child's laugh--pure, deep, spiritual. I haven't heard that in awhile.
I went to see you today--and you were there. Waiting. It's like you were expecting me. Can I tell you something? Can I tell you that I almost cried when I saw you? I felt whole again. Like the time when Mom and Dad sat between us at church. You took each of their hands and studied them. You loved dad's rough, dark hands--how large his knuckles were compared to mom's. Her hands were flawless--smooth, soft, petite. Her nails a brilliant pink. Together, they felt like a warm blanket. That was your religion. Wasn't it?
Now that I met with you today, I feel like I need to apologize. But, first can I say that it wasn't until our meeting that I realized I lost you? I mean, I really had no idea how far away I had gone, and how long I had stayed, and that I missed you and all that you are. I was wrong. But I just didn't know at the time that I didn't know what I thought I did.
I left you because I thought I knew what it meant to grow up. I'm sorry for the quick decisions, the betrayals, the neglect. I'm sorry for wanting things to be different and for putting Him and Her and It before you.
Let's go back to the places I remember but at one time forgot. Maybe if we visit these places together, I won't ever lose you again.

Letters to Me

It's pages are old--
A tarnished yellow--faded
and wrinkled.
They smell like a million
Words left unsaid
Baking in the hot sun.

The weathered binding is
Splitting at the seams.
Worn and well-used--a
Sign of friendship that
Longs to expand but knows it can't.

Its words are beginning to
Fade, but only in print.

For what it holds is a peace
that comes after the rain,
or from a first kiss or
from the smell of a long goodbye--
or a long hello.

Look beyond the cover--
See me.
For who I am.
For Who I long to be.
Find in me what I find in you.

Circus Clown

Mirrors, Mirrors on the walls--

Distorting my color and shape.

This house of fun is haunting

The happiness you think you make.

The striped tent stands alone

On a backdrop of amber red.

Lights, laughter, loneliness are the colors

On the canvas of the things you said

To me on the night of the circus.

A spectacle--Come one, Come all!

I bought my ticket, I bought yours too.

And walked your tightrope and tried not to fall.

The sound of applause (in your mind alone),

The tent remains pitched in your town.

You believe yourself the ringleader,

When all you really are is the clown.

Regret

It's a hunger when I am already full.
A haunting of my heart and mind.
A splintering cold slips in through the window I have closed
So many times.

When will you call and claim what's yours?

You said you would. You said
It wouldn't be long
Before I could breathe on my own.
Before I could warm my cold
Lungs with the warm breath of honesty.

But that's what hurts the most--
The icy chill of the truth--
It's the wind that breaks the fragile glass,
When all it ever does is watch for spring.

Love this poem: Enjoy.

The Shrinking Lonesome Sestina
By Miller Williams

Somewhere in everyone’s head something points toward home,
a dashboard’s floating compass, turning all the time
to keep from turning. It doesn’t matter how we come
to be wherever we are, someplace where nothing goes
the way it went once, where nothing holds fast
to where it belongs, or what you’ve risen or fallen to.

What the bubble always points to,
whether we notice it or not, is home.
It may be true that if you move fast
everything fades away, that given time
and noise enough, every memory goes
into the blackness, and if new ones come—

small, mole-like memories that come
to live in the furry dark—they, too,
curl up and die. But Carol goes
to high school now. John works at home
what days he can to spend some time
with Sue and the kids. He drives too fast.

Ellen won’t eat her breakfast.
Your sister was going to come
but didn’t have the time.
Some mornings at one or two
or three I want you home
a lot, but then it goes.

It all goes.
Hold on fast
to thoughts of home
when they come.
They’re going to
less with time.

Time
goes
too
fast.
Come
home.

Forgive me that. One time it wasn’t fast.
A myth goes that when the quick years come
then you will, too. Me, I’ll still be home.

Almost a Fantasy*

The polished keys on the piano- a contrast of black and white-glide effortlessly under the calloused fingers. The instrument itself is beautiful, perfect and the notes it produces seem to provide a perfect balance of melody and harmony—creating the classical music we have come to know and love. But there seems to be more going on between the notes of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.

A story is being told.

A story of confidence and power and its struggle to find a balance with a lighter, pure melody.

Under the cover of darkness and the illumination of moonlight, the notes dance off the keys and begin their interchange.

A pattern develops between a steady beating of a heavenly tune but is momentarily paused by a louder, bolder note—one that seems to resonate throughout the entire piece. This note is flat and a bit unsettling with the rest of the melody.

It’s paradoxical in its nature.

While it jolts the soft melody it also propels it—allowing for the listener to experience the same effect.

It’s mysterious—captivating—necessary.

The sonata doesn’t give us what we want. It tells us what we want. We think we want order and patterns so we can predict the next move. But in reality, it’s the darker, flatter notes in our lives that provide a brilliant contrast to the beautiful, softer tones.

*Beethoven included the title “Quasi una Fantasia” (Latin for “Almost a Fantasy”) in his sonata partly because it didn’t follow the traditional movement pattern.

I Drink My Tea from a Broken Cup

I am really enjoying writing along with my students these days. Today, I gave them the quote "I drink tea from a broken cup" and they had to either explain the quote in a paragraph or use it in some type of creative piece. Here's mine:

You want perfection.
Smooth, soft, hard, glassy.
You expect it. You demand
From me a goblet--gold, jeweled, sparkling
in the light.
As if the wine will taste better that way.
As if my cup--simple, small, fragile, an
Heirloom from long ago,
Would tarnish the flavor.

Keep your wine.
Keep your goblet--with its pretentious
Weight and cold touch.
You fail to see the beauty in imperfection.
I drink my tea from a broken cup.

I am

I had my students write an "I Am" poem today, so I wrote one too:

I am ready to live and love.

I wonder what life would be like without you.

I hear your bird-like truth, fluttering outside my window.

I see your light and feel its warmth.

I want to walk in you—to never feel lost again.

I am ready to live and love.

I pretend that I can sometimes do it on my own.

I feel nine and eight and seven—maybe five too.

I touch the sky—hoping to not get burned by the sun.

I worry that one day the little bird won’t fly.

I cried when I was in the dark.

I am ready to live and love.

I understand it won’t be easy.

I say it, but sometimes can’t fully believe.

I dream my dreams will come true.

I try to stay grounded—

I hope that I don’t.

I am ready to live and love.

See Jane...See Jane Run...See Jane read???

I have come to the conclusion that I do not teach reading, never have, and probably never will in a secondary classroom. Yet, this is the language I use in my classroom. Read Poe’s The Tell Tale Heart. Read the first 100 lines of Beowulf. Read Chapter 12 of The Scarlet Letter. And, I have also come to the conclusion that my students are really doing exactly what I am asking of them. So, herein lies the problem. What I mean by “reading” and what my students mean by “reading” are two very different things.

When I looked up “reading” in the dictionary, 16 definitions were listed. Among them: “to utter or render aloud,” “to examine and grasp the meaning of,” “to foretell or predict,” “to learn or get knowledge from something written or printed.” And the list goes on. Whether noun or verb, what we are demanding from our students needs to be more clearly defined if we want the results.

I guess by reading, my students are probably more inclined to adopt the definition that involves uttering sound as opposed to thinking critically. But I don’t blame them. That was what “reading” was when they were younger—matching the spelling of words with the phonetic pronunciation.

Now, at the secondary level, when I assign a “reading assignment” I am really asking my students to critically interpret a text. I think I am teaching them strategies to do this; I mean, that has always been my objective. But, I also fully realize that there is in fact a gap between what I want my students to accomplish with a text and what they actually do with it.

Maybe our different definitions of reading and literacy contribute to the problem. Perhaps it’s time that we start truly defining what it means to read or to interpret a text if we ever hope to narrow the gap.

“A woman, without her man, is nothing. A woman: without her, man is nothing.”

A panda walks into a café. He orders a sandwich, eats it, then draws a gun and fires two shots into the air.
“Why?” asks the confused waiter, as the panda makes towards the exit. The panda produces a badly punctuated wildlife manual and tosses it over his shoulder.
“I’m a panda,” he says at the door. “Look it up.”
The waiter turns to the relevant entry and, sure enough, finds as explanation.
“Panda. Large black-and-white bear-like mammal, native to China. Eats, shoots and leaves.”

Lynne Truss uses this anecdote about the “dangers” of misusing punctuation in her aptly titled book, Eats, Shoots and Leaves. A self-named “stickler for punctuation,” Truss wittingly addresses the world’s digression from using the “proper” rules of grammar and language. I enjoyed the book, being able to relate to her “grammar rants.” I mean, she’s right. Every language has rules, and in order to have full command of the language, one must use the rules properly. Take Truss’ example of the power of punctuation:
1. “A woman, without her man, is nothing.”
2. “A woman: without her, man is nothing.”
The wording remains the same, but the usage of punctuation bears significant weight in meaning.

So, as an English teacher, a supposed “master” of the English language, I feel obligated to correct my students’ grammar foibles in both speech and in writing. My motives are pure intended: I want them to sound academic and intelligent. However, the “linguist” in me has to recognize the other side of the coin. Do I assume that when my students do not use the correct rules of English grammar that they are lazy, or ignorant, or stupid? What could be other causes? What about socio-economic or racial or cultural factors? America is known for its diversity; thus, as teachers, should we not take that into consideration? It seems like now more than ever America is classified into the “Haves” and the “Have Nots” and Standard American English rules and correct usage definitely play a role in determining what group we fit into.

So, while Lynne Truss may have been in jest when referring to punctuation and grammar as a “life and death” situation, the reality is that how we speak and how we write is a reflection of our work ethic, intelligence, and overall competency. The problem, then, is how this is addressed in the classroom. Once again, back to the drawing board.

The Art of Questioning

I would never wish upon my worst enemy (if I had one in the first place) the trials and tribulations of a first year teacher. It is such an uncertain time, in every sense of the word. I remember doubting myself, my choice of profession, my knowledge of my content area, my ability to gain respect from my students, my ability, in turn, to respect them, and, in general, my capacity to reach my students and make a difference—just to name a few. Four years later, some of my doubts have been laid to rest. For example, I am positive that no other job, at this time of my life, could bring me as much happiness. I feel like I have been called to do what I do, and I am grateful to have answered it. That said, not all of the questions, concerns, and doubts of my first few years of teaching are answered. Teachers, decent ones anyways, seem to naturally adopt a certain “trial and error” mentality that is attached to our “call of duty.” We are constantly questioning our lesson plans, methods, our overall effectiveness and success of our students. What worked? What didn’t? Why?

My English 530 professor recently assigned articles that addressed the need for teachers to question and conduct their own research in the classroom, and I couldn’t agree more. Most teachers recognize that in order to best service our students, we cannot rely on standardized testing and “Gold Star” research methods that turns our students into numbers, and blankets individual needs and diversity. In an age of “No Child Left Behind” the American public is closer and closer to relying solely on these means to understand how our students learn instead of recognizing and validating the voice of the teacher, who, above anyone, knows in turn the voices of the students. Like our students, teachers have a story to tell. The issue is that a)will teachers continue to question and seek methods of finding answers and b)will the public choose to listen.

I feel a bit lost at this point of my research, and the scary part is that I know that in many ways, this stage will be the easiest. But, where do I start? There are so many topics that I would like to pursue. Are students still profiting from “canonized” classics? Do the “Westernized” classics contradict our push for a diverse, multicultural curriculum? I have a feeling that most students graduate from high school without ever having fully read a novel—if this is true, how come? Why is it that students are just not reading and/or comprehending? How has technology limited literacy? How can I use both literature and writing to truly impact my students? So many questions….so little time. But, this is just the beginning. ..

Defining Adolescence

What does it mean to be an adolescent? It seems like a simple question on the surface that renders an equally simple response. However, here lies the problem. Like the question itself, the definition of adolescence is complex and, in many ways, subjective. Most would agree that adolescence is a “life stage” that is an essential component in the Westernized concept of “coming-of-age.” But our opinions on the topic doesn’t end there. We have serious connotations when it comes to generalizing young people, connotations that are a product of our social, political, cultural, ideological, and economical experiences. Consequently, this forms the foundation and ideas behind our pedagogy and curriculum in the education system. It makes sense: we will treat and educate our students based on how we view them, and we typically view them at best as “hormonally imbalanced,” “misunderstood,” and “awkward,” and at worst, “rebellious,” “lost,” and “incapable.” This, in turn, then works to define what “good” teaching is, and unfortunately, the art of teaching, at times, has become synonymous with the art of “managing” and “reining in” these lost young adults.

When thinking of how our culture views adolescents, I thought of Gwendolyn Brook’s poem, “We Real Cool.” In it, the poet describes in quite negative imagery what she believes are the thoughts and feelings of a group of seven young men who were playing pool during the middle of the school day. In an interview, Gwendolyn Brooks candidly responds to questions regarding the collective, “adolescent” voice of her poem “We Real Cool”:

They have no pretensions to any glamor. They are supposedly dropouts, or at least they're in the poolroom when they should possibly be in school, since they're probably young enough, or at least those I saw were when I looked in a poolroom. They're a little uncertain of the strength of their identity.

Mrs. Brooks, in her observation, makes several assumptions of her subjects. They must be skipping school, and thus they must be in all sorts of trouble (“sing sin,” “thin gin”). I happen to love this poem, but thinking of how we define adolescents made me see it in a new way. Essentially, the poem gives a voice to the adolescents—a voice that is pretty rebellious, complacent, and quite honestly, depressing.

What is the voice that we are giving our adolescent students by what we teach them and how we teach it? Are they speaking themselves or are we (parents, teachers, administrators, authors, etc) speaking for them?

“We Real Cool”

Gwendolyn Brooks

THE POOL PLAYERS.
SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We
Skip school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

It's the Small Things that Matter

The soft smell of cinnamon gum, the delightful droning of various NPR broadcasters, the quiet dignity of a mustache and bow tie—these characteristics are synonymous with only one man—my father.

Growing up, I knew as a child that my dad was admired and respected in our small community. Whether it was at church or school, someone always had something to say about his humor, charisma, or passion. Now, it’s my turn.

There are numerous memories that might not mean much to some, but mean the world to me. I truly believe that it’s the small things that count, and here are a few of those “small” things that I remember from my childhood.

I remember when my dad would vacuum, he would place the ottoman on top of the chair—which created a perfect hiding place for me. I would crawl in the open space and hide from the world, and create a new one for myself. I loved that…in fact, there have been several times in my adult life in which I needed to crawl into that covert…if only I could fit!

Although the father of three girls, my dad never missed out on the sports, rough-housing, or other traditions that involves rearing boys. In fact, the most predominate memory with my dad has to be “Wild Rumpus!” This game involved my younger sister and I pummeling my dad while yelling a shrilling “Let the Wild Rumpus Begin!” (taken from the book he would read to us, Where the Wild Things Are. See? Everything good comes from books J). We would then commence in a “battle royale” until we were all too tired to move. Needless to say, my sister and I loved it.

The memories could go on and on—pizza on Fridays, pancakes on Saturdays, bike rides, car rides, camping—but there is one constant that ties them all together. My father loved us. That is something I always felt growing up, and I think that if you accomplished that as a parent, you have succeeded.

Thank you, Dad, for everything. For raising me, for inspiring me, for loving me. Happy Father’s Day—you’re the best.

"Every Trip is a Quest" (especially to the grocery store)

25 years ago my mom celebrated her very first mother’s day. Not being a mother myself yet, I can only imagine the depth of pride, joy, and sense of fulfillment she experienced on that day, as well as many others over the years. I want to write this blog as a tribute to my mother because I don’t tell her enough how much I love her or how I completely respect the woman she is, and because she doesn’t know—even in the slightest sense—how much she has shaped me into the person I have become.

One of the most significant ways she touched my life was with a seemingly insignificant tradition. Probably from the time I was an infant, my mom would buy me a book (usually from The Berenstain Bears collection…remember those?) every time she would take me grocery shopping. The grocery stores used to have children’s books on revolving racks near the check-out and I remember her guiding me in my selection. My attention was on the most colorful and decorated cover pictures, but she would patiently pick up a book, skim through the content, and show me what the book was going to be about—essentially selling the content of the book and thematic elements instead of the pictures. As an adult, when I retrospectively consider my emotions of excitement and intrigue of these moments, I can honestly tribute that tradition as the cornerstone of my passion for literature. To this day, when I drive myself up to Barnes and Noble, I experience that “school-girl giddiness” when I run my hands over the new, untouched book covers and skim the pages for content (rather than pictures). My mother taught me that books are a gift, in more ways than one. My mother taught me to love reading.

Through the years, unbeknownst to my mother and maybe even myself, I have watched how she handled life and all the love, joy, beauty, and pain that comes with it. I have fulfilled the truth of the adage that foreshadows every child reaching a point where she will truly appreciate the discipline and choices of her parents. My mother taught me what it means to love—which is meant to be simple, but, oh, how we make it so complicated. My mother taught me what it means to be a woman—a strong, independent woman who can make her mark on the word while nurturing her husband and children. My mother taught me what it means to be a Christian who must live by faith and walk in truth.

Mom, I realize now that you are the “citadel” of my life. You are the person I run to first when I need help, wisdom, and guidance and I know that is never going to change. I hope that my life can be a reflection of you and all that you have given me. No words could ever express what you mean to me—but I hope that this serves as a voice and speaks the truth that you have so beautifully spoken already. Happy Mother’s Day.