Our #OpenWrite Host
Emily lives in San Diego, California where she teaches at San Diego Global Vision Academy. She serves as a teacher leader at her site, creating and presenting professional development for the teaching team. Emily is also a fellow and teacher consultant with the San Diego Area Writing Project under the National Writing Project. As a teacher consultant, she is honored to work with a diverse teacher and student population across San Diego. Emily believes in teachers teaching teachers and strives to perpetuate that model. She spends her free time with her husband, 1 year old son, and rescue dog.
Inspiration
An indelible moment is one that cannot be forgotten, they are permanent. Whether the moment felt tiny or huge, positive or negative, it leaves an imprint in our hearts and minds. See the following list below to begin creating your own list of indelible moments.
Process
Brainstorm some indelible moments in your life. I used this list of categories to start my brain flow:
- A gift you received or gave
- Elementary school moment
- A meal or dining experience
- A time you traveled or perhaps were lost
- A conversation
Choose one to jump start your poem for today. Consider this mentor text with repetition and description: Tornado Child by Kwame Dawes
Emily’s Poem
Second Daughter
By Emily Yamasaki
I am the second daughter.
I come like a shadow behind my sister;
I follow her every move and try to be
The perfect copy paste, but always
Even when I work my hardest, I
Am distorted at the edges, never perfect
I am the second daughter.
By nature, I’ll always lose. It’s hard to win
The race when you start three years late.
This race my mother made, though she did so
With no words or finish lines – just her tone and judgment
I am the second daughter.
You can tell us apart easily, we really don’t
Look or act or sound or feel the same;
Poised or reckless, you can have one
But you can’t have them both
I am the second daughter.
Born in the whirl of my sister’s achievements,
When I came, my mother told me I cried the loudest.
Already a nuisance, already difficult
I am the second daughter.
And just one tiny comment over the side salads resting
On the crisp white tablecloth linen
You hear like a crack over the hum of innocent diners
“You will never love me as much as you love her.”
A forever rift swallowed us whole
Your Turn
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
An Oral History: COVID-19 Teacher-Poets Writing to Bridge the Distance
Did you write poetry during the first days of COVID-19 school closings? Would you like to be interview for our oral history project? Click here to learn more.
Apple River Perseverance
I anticipated this day for so very long
Nothing possibly would dare go wrong
Unless this day you had to get a shot
Back when Diphtheria was raging hot
My arm swelled up like a sausage roll
Hot and painful, it took its toll
“You can’t go to the Apple River today.”
Floating the rapids with your friends in play.
“Your arm’s too swollen, it cannot bend!”
Those days of waiting, a tragic end
So behind the garage I sat on a rock
To bend that arm, the pain to block
Little by little, I worked on that arm
Bending it bit by bit it did no harm
The pain was intense, so much to bear
But that arm would bend on that I did swear
It seemed like hours of working through pain
Until I could bend my swollen arm again
I pushed through the pain to make it bend
Over and over again, till my arm did mend
I ran to Mom to show her I could
Bend my arm just fine, so now I should
Be allowed to go to the river today
With my friends to spend the day in play
On my face she saw the tears of my toil
And knew my efforts she could not foil
So with my friends I got to go
Down the Apple River, free to flow
Protection
It’s not often I remember without doubt
Leaving our friends’ house…3AM, light’s out
Brother’s driving father’s company truck.
I fall asleep, passenger’s luck
But it’s 3AM and brother hasn’t slept yet
He falls asleep; we’re a sleeping duet.
I wake up to a hand across my chest
truck is slammed into a tree on the left
simultaneously shaking but calm
His voice makes me know no harm
I remember that tranquility
Realising someone cared so much for me
That his instinct was to move arm to protect
Forming a cross-like statuette
And I believe in him more than any religion
This action engrained in my heart and memory
never to forget
Wow Angie. I wasn’t sure where this was going – and was surprised by violent action just as it comes up in the pacing of the poem. I like how that isn’t the main focus and the longer detail of the after effect. “His voice makes me know no harm” is not specific about what he said or the sound of his voice – rather the effect his voice had on you is the detail. I like that technique. I think we try too hard sometimes to do what we’re told good writers do – use sensory detail. Yet, here, it’s more about your perception. That “tranquility” and “calm” can come from a crash scene is powerful indeed.
The Baby
By Mo Daley 8/16/20
I am the baby
The miracle child
Luck number 13
The one Mom’s doctor said would kill her
The one Mom and Dad thought was a special blessing from God
The one Mom nursed at 44
I made my presence known
I am the baby
The tagalong
The extra
The so-called “spoiled” one
The peacemaker
The last to leave the nest
I am the baby
The collector of dead relatives’ stuff
The organizer of family gatherings
The entertainer
The historian
The archivist of long forgotten lore
I am the baby
The hunter and gatherer who won’t let memories die
The connector, building bridges from past to future
The calm
The backbone, supporting even when it’s hard to stand much longer
I am the baby
The daughter
The sister
The sister-in-law
The aunt
The wife
The mother
The great aunt
The mother-in-law
The grandmother
The heart
Mo, I resonate with so many lines in here and especially appreciate “the hunter and gatherer who won’t let memories die”. I also like “spoiled” in quotes. People call me spoiled. I know I am not…HA. Thanks for sharing!
Mo, what a village you had, 13th child!!! Wow. I can’t imagine. I salute your mom and you for handling all that you must have experienced. I was frustrated with only one sibling. What I really love is this:
The calm
The backbone, supporting even when it’s hard to stand much longer
Beautiful to be the strength in a long line of siblings.
Take care of yourself! ?
Dear Emily: I am the first daughter, but I can still imagine how my sister would react to your poem! Indeed, I’m going to share it with her. I would write more, but I have been up most of the night with my migraine, so I’m at that point where thinking is hard. I’m sorry this is late–I can’t write on our Sabbath till 9:30pm. By then my head hurt! Anne
Happy Glads!
Everywhere,
buckets of tall,
soon-to-be explosions
of color!
Their joyfully swaddled
blossoms cover
each green whip
top to bottom.
It’s glad season!
On a walk,
to escape or to process,
alert for late summer patches
of garden color:
echinacea, phlox, a riot of petunias,
begonias—always red?!
Then, peeking around a house corner,
a rare find:
brilliant yellow glads,
showing off to the world!
It’s glad season!
An Iowa farm birthday:
a carful of vegetarians
chasing my favorite flower
through the seed corn fields,
past the hog and turkey “confinements.”
Small town living often means
to find the gem,
overlook the blemishes—
simply no alternative.
My birthday gem:
an entire glad farm
with pick your own!
It’s Glad Season!
This year, another glad season birthday!
I imagine everywhere,
buckets of tall,
soon-to-be explosions
of color!
But no shops for my high-risk lungs.
My husband bravely ventures forth instead,
bringing home an armful
of birthday bliss!
In happy pink and purple glory
they bloom on the island,
keeping me company through
long migrainal nights.
It’s glad season!
AJ, this is what you can write after suffering a migraine all day? Holy cow! I’s lovely. Your first stanza really grabbed me. I especially appreciate your title.
I see you are from IL. I was wondering if you live near Momence- I wast just reading about their Gladiolus Festival. I’m hoping to go next year.
So great to have other National Writing Project teachers in the mix … this was a tricky one to write ….
No one thought
leaving
the child
behind
might be
wrong
No one’s thinking
straight
anyway
when the
phone
rings at
midnight
beyond
No one thinks
thoughts
of the child
behind
No one but
the child
himself
This is a little haunting to me. So many things racing through my mind reading this.
I totally agree with Michael. I have questions after reading your poem, Kevin.
Kevin, I so enjoy how the pace of your poem reflects the actions in the poem. The sudden panic, and the horror of being that child left behind is visceral. Your poem truly ends with a punch.
Oooweee, I want to know more! This is a very intriguing piece. Reminds me of an opening to a fantastic novel. Thanks Kevin!
I make do when
I’m 10 years old and
the blizzard has shut
down the city and Christmas is
coming and I am stuck
at home.
I make do when
my sister finishes her gift
shopping before the radio closes
the schools early for winter break and
she says she has bought me
the best present ever.
I make do with
felt and scissors and Elmer’s glue and
a library book on puppets that I borrowed
to earn a merit badge and I make the best
bird puppet I have ever made.
I make do with
the indifference she shows and the book
of Lifesavers she bought me and the desire
to offer to swap gifts before we both forget
we even traded them.
Now, I make do with
two final days before my semester
begins though school is really canceled and
I’m not really sure what classes I’m teaching
but I have a book on distance learning and
some felt and scissors and
Elmer’s glue.
Oh, making do with the world’s twists is a great theme right about now (says another teacher).
For some reason, the book of Lifesavers was an image that stayed with me.
Kevin
Jeff — You have certainly captured the “make do” with the “felt and scissors and/Elmer’s glue.” As I visualize you with the book on distance learning, I want to hold your hand…because getting through this, we both know, is going to take so much more than felt, scissors, and glue, and a detached manual that makes it sound like “Oh yeah, this’ll be a walk in the park.” We know at our core it is going to be rough, really rough. The opening image of a blizzard, thereby, fits so well…it is a storm, one that just doesn’t want to quit. Whew. I can feel the brewing stress your built into the last stanza. Thank you for sharing this! Susie
The adaptability you learned as a child will certainly come in handy as you figure out distance learning. When you do figure it out, give me a call!
Wow Emily!
I think your poem totally reflects what a second daughter might think or feel. It reminded me that one of my best friends has felt exactly like that. I think this poem can help second daughters realize they are not the only ones feeling that way. It can even help parents and siblings understand much better what their second daughter might be going through.
Emily,
Your poem really hit home with me. I, too, am the second daughter with the added delight of having a baby brother, the only boy. I probably don’t have to tell you who the favorite was. Thank you for sharing your poem with us.
This Is My Home
This is my home
Where I decided to put down roots after returning from the Peace Corps
Where my books reside
Where my art supplies wait for me with eager anticipation
This is my home
Where dirty flood waters entered on a warm August evening
Where I learned about PTSD
Where I’m currently living as a hermit during a pandemic
This is my home
Where I live in quiet solitude
Where I’m trying to create a better life
Where I write poems and try to understand who I am
Sharon — I like the honesty in your poem. Home has shifted in “dirty flood waters” but is is “quiet solitude”… and I’m so glad that it moves you to “write poems…to understand who I am.” Thank you for that honest picture and the heart. Susie
This is such a beautiful poem about your home. It’s inspiring me to think of my home and to write! Thank you for sharing this.
I wrote this after 12 hours in the car with youngest son to take him back for his sophomore year of college, so I was slightly fatigued while writing. I hope it makes some semblance of sense.
Of Gifts, chips, and time
It has a tiny little chip just at the base, a little knick, a little mar to the porcelain surface, a little nod to every day use.
You gave it to me one Christmas before the days of driving, before the days of waiting up for you, before the days of you leaving our home
for weeks,
for months.
You ordered it on your own,
paid for it on your own,
chose it as the gift that said Dad by saying something else.
This morning I poured my caramel brulee coffee laced with too heavy a hand of Italian Sweet Cream into the mug bearing the epithet you decided perfectly captured your English teacher dad.
The impish grin coloring your face as I pulled your gift from the wrapping returns to me as I draw your gift to my lips.
Etched in a warm tan mirroring the color of my cream heavy coffee are the words “I am silently correcting your grammar.”
You knew I would love it.
I did.
I do.
And today, in the hours before the sun even thinks about making an appearance, I sip my coffee waiting for you
to emerge,
to wake,
to rise,
to leave us again.
We say goodbye to mom, thankful for the dark of morning to to obscure her tears.
We crawl into a car loaded with the possessions you deemed worthy,
the possessions that carry traces of you,
the possessions we thought would tie you to us,
the possessions we had hope would stay behind and beckon you home.
In twelve hours we’ll arrive.
In twenty-four hours you’ll move into your dorm.
In twenty-six hours you’ll forsake Dad for friends.
In forty-eight hours I’ll once again sip from your gift,
the one with
a little chip,
a little knick,
a little mar,
and a little reminder that with each morning’s coffee
you a another day closer
to farther away.
Wow, Michael. Your poem is incredible. The final three lines are echoing in my brain.
Thanks. I noticed my typo. Should say ” are another day closer,” but it had been a long day. ?
Those last three lines just keep sticking to my heart.
This line resonated with me:
“And today, in the hours before the sun even thinks about making an appearance, I sip my coffee waiting for you …”
I can see it.
Kevin
Michael — what a beautiful poem after a long and, no doubt, emotional day. As others had said, those last three lines are striking, however, I totally felt the third stanza, “We say goodbye to mom, thankful for the dark of morning to to obscure her tears. / We crawl into a car loaded with the possessions you deemed worthy, / the possessions that carry traces of you, / the possessions we thought would tie you to us, / the possessions we had hope would stay behind and beckon you home.” The repetition of “possessions” sticks with me. Who or what or what do we possess? Do we take (possess) them or are they given as a possession to cherish? Perhaps a bit of both. Thank you for sharing your words today.
Why?
My girlfriend invited me to join her
For her job’s weekend event
But a getaway nonetheless
In sunny San Diego
Free hotel
Free food
Free drinks and no limits
Why not?
My school year barely started
Finished students’ assessments
And my energy dropped
To zero
What’s a Friday off
A three-day weekend
No one will care
But we just had Labor Day
But why not?
My trusted sub confirmed
I stopped slathering on guilt
Like liquid skin
Packed a small suitcase
Swimsuit, sunscreen,
And some papers to correct
Just because the guilt skin
Was thick
But I planned to relax
Why not?
We talked and laughed
During the 2-hour ride
On the freeway that looked like
Everyone was going
Where we were going
I asked for all the details
The itinerary for work and play
Even if her coworkers talked nonstop
She said I could retreat to the room
Or sit and listen
Knowing I would tune out
Why not?
We had appetizers on the rooftop
Took pictures of the ocean
Laughed with bosses
Who normally acted like assholes
Enjoyed dinner and wine
“Tell me about your students.”
“Are their parents involved?”
“Why don’t they pay you teachers more?”
“I still remember my favorite teacher.”
“I barely made it out. I never liked school.”
Why not?
Two glasses too many
Voices began to buzz
Bedtime chimed three hours ago
Time to say good night
They had early morning meetings
I would sleep until at least 8
Just enough time to check on my sub
I would have breakfast and coffee
In the cool morning air
Why not?
Why not?
Because about 2 hours after falling
Into the depths of intoxicated sleep
Cradled by plush hotel bedding
My phone rang silently
Thanks to DO NOT DISTURB
My phone rang again
Silently
My girlfriend’s phone rang
LOUD
My daughter called from Atlanta
She, too, had a weekend getaway
Why was she calling so late
Why not?
Why?
Because a drunk driver crashed
Into my son’s car
On a winding canyon road
She said I have to call him
I called and all I heard was screaming
The sound of my son
Breaking into pieces
A lady named Angel
Took the phone and calmed me into prayer
I prayed but she was talking
His leg was broken
His car was totaled
Drunk man hurt other people too
Police took information
Helicopter was on the way
Take my son to the hospital
She wouldn’t leave him alone
She would wait as long as necessary
My son. My baby. Wailing in anguish.
My heart. My brain on speed dial.
Replaying each moment.
I’m too far away to be at the scene.
Too far away to wait at the hospital.
Guilt skin hardened
Why now?
We packed, left the hotel
Got on the freeway and prayed
Our drunkenness away
Prayed to arrive in time
To see my son alive
To be by his side
To look into his eyes
Why, God, why?
©Stacey L. Joy
Stacey, what a riveting story you have told about an indelible moment that is forever etched into your mind. That late phone call. The repetition of “Why not?” and then “Why now?” and the poignant ending, “Why, God, why?” So powerful. I’m sure you were thankful for Angel. I want to sit and hear more of the story.
Oh, Stacey, that is not where I thought this poem was going. I could relate to the “guilt skin” (I LOLed at that) and being able to retreat to your room if the talkers kept talking. I was expecting… something else. I was suddenly crying and imagining your shock and pain. I hope by now your son has made a full recovery.
Oh Stacey — This pulses with the “Why not” repetitions, that seem to imitate your son’s heartbeat…almost like an omen. You were so innocently trying to break away, something clearly not in your nature…the “guilt skin” was so real. I can’t even imagine the terror of that phonemail and the act of praying “our drunkenness away.” Oh man. Riveting. The conversation on the rooftop with the a’hole bosses…those questions were those ubiquitous teacher stuff… and there is always some character who disses school with “I barely made it out…” [eyeroll] I could hear that conversation. The accident, though, just rips the poems with the voice of a mother’s fear…short clipped lines… scary. Tell me that your son got through this. Please. Sending you a hug… one that makes that memory fade. It still is so real. So, I know this hurts. Susie
Thank God, yes, he was rehabilitating for a year. Then he was emotionally screwed for another year, not to mention the unmentionables his father spewed at him on his sick bed. I’m hoping that’ll be another poem this week. But it’s been almost 4 years and he’s well and completely recovered. His life was a fight from day 1. He’s my reminder to keep fighting. Thank you Susie.
Whoof! What a brutal time you and he had. This had to be really rough…the physical, the emotional, the frictions from “his father”…just a true nightmare. But being on the other side must feel amazing…indeed, keep fighting! Susie
The repetition felt like the thumps of my heart beat. I felt the rhythm snowballing faster and faster with each line of your poem. Thank you for sharing this poem with us. It’s heartbreaking and infuriating. Thinking of your son – what a warrior.
Oh, Stacey. I was propelled forward because I just knew something going to happen. I sure wasn’t prepared for what did.
You are such a gifted storyteller. The Why and Why Not really helps unify the poem.
I sure hope your son is Recovering. ??
I’m tense, thinking of the phone call from afar from your daughter, and reading your comments to others, grateful he is recovering (but still, years later).
Kevin
Stacey, wow, what a gripping narrative. I’m glad your son is doing better now. Thanks for sharing such a strong piece of poetry, so straight-forward and honest.
Stacey, I think you build this poem up so incredibly well in my opinion with “Why not?” there has to be a reason, but at the same time it’s light at the beginning as well and drastically changes, which is wonderfully written also. I’m so sorry for that experience. I really like the different textual elements and dialogue added in which make the severity more prominent. Thank you for sharing.
I am Iowa Nice.
I wave at strangers.
I offer directions when folks lose their way and find themselves on the gravel.
I cast my eyes downward when I see a confederate flag sticker on the bumper.
I am Too Iowa Nice.
You first. No, you first.
I line up, step up, step forward
when the school bell rings.
I hold my breath in a pandemic classroom
where my students are not required to mask.
I am Way Too Iowa Nice.
To avoid stepping on toes,
overstepping authority,
I zip
my stiff upper lip
and take my place
among the lemmings
as we march into the 2020 sea.
Oh Allison, I love what you did with your poem. It’s so refreshing to read because to know that you are nice, too nice, and way too nice made my heart smile! The world needs you!
Blessings in the new school year. We are in this together. I am also “holding my breath in a pandemic classroom.”
Allison,
We see what is on your heart these days. I like how the repetition of I am Iowa Nice grows to Too Nice and Way Too Nice. This stanza especially, a sign of the time, is a powerful recording of our history this fall:
Allison, my heart breaks for you and all the teachers who are being forced back into the classroom. It’s time for many of us to stop being so nice and make some “good trouble.”
Allison — I am holding my breath as well just thinking about a system not requiring students to mask. It’s such a simple act of caring. We use seat belts, and they are truly uncomfortable; a mask is a simple piece of cotton, no big deal…yet a HUGE deal. Too nice…you are TOO PRECIOUS, and I want you safe. We insist on driver’s licenses…they cost money and time… a mask …heck I made mine out of old pillow cases and slip in a coffee filter. It’s so simple. The act is so simple. I am so worried for every teacher I know. Do not march into the sea, my friend. I ache for the no-win in your poem… nice shouldn’t have to be a deadly equation. Hugs to you, my friend. Susie
Dear Allison: Ah, you take me back! When I was just beginning to teach and my older son, now 32 and with a life partner, was in preschool and my husband had his first fulltime college teaching job–in Storm Lake, Iowa. NW Iowa, the most conservative part of the state. Robert was told–privately–he got his job because he could talk about my family ties to the area (grandfather&family). Otherwise, people were suspicious of “coasters.” Later I had a friend, a teacher, who decided not to get her masters because she would not be able to get a job. That’s the flip side of small-town “Iowa nice.”
I didn’t feel the pressure to conform as a teacher–I was pretty insulated as first a SPED assistant and then an early childhood and adult pre-GED teacher). But we felt it with our son! His favorite color was HOT pink and he LOVED it. In the land where boys only wore blue, brown, gray, black, anc khaki, Sandy’s raincoat and boots were his favorite color. He also wore a traditional Jewish headcovering, a kippah. And since his first haircut at age 3, he had chosen to wear a tail. The comments came from the other preschool staff and especially the owner/director. We zipped up our stiff upper lips and smiled as we did our best to swim alongside, not quite in, not quite out of the school of “fish.”
AJ, IL — I’m glad I came back this morning to read responses from yesterday…your account is so real, so common in the heartland it seems…maybe I just think that because I’m in Missouri…a heartland place where conforming is shoved down the throats of anyone who might ask questions or step outside the lines. Gosh, I so appreciate your honest and heartfelt response to Allison’s poem which pushed me to ache for the complexity of life “not quite out of the school of “fish.” — Susie
AJ, IL – Buena Vista! Although I’ve lived in Iowa all my life–and in southwest rural Iowa for 37 years, I think I’ve always been swimming alongside. Trying to make a difference while monitoring the waves. Sending love to your son.
I love this. I love the nice. too nice, the way too nice. And the Iowa added to each one just adds to it.
The use of lemmings and the sea and reference to Damn 2020 made me laugh!
Allison, I so understand the emotion of this poem. I too am Iowa Nice, and when some of the frustration leads to angry words, I only find regret. The lemmings imagery is absolutely chilling here! Praying for you and your year ahead!
Thank you, Emily! It is so good to be back with all of you.
It wasn’t the wedding.
There was the champagne dress with the tiny seed pearls.
There were roses, just roses, beige and peach and white
And the tiers of basket weave frosting.
It wasn’t the graduations.
High school, college, then more college
A windy May day with mom and grandparents
A windy May day with husband and boys
It wasn’t the awards
Or the paychecks or the gifts
Or the prizes won or not won.
It certainly wasn’t the abcessed tooth
Or the broken arm or the gallbladder attack
Or all of the time spent counting ceiling tiles
In the hospital rooms of mother or husband or child.
It wasn’t that at all.
It was the settling sounds of the house and the chiming of the clock.
It was the lambent glow of the seashells and sand dollars in the afternoon sun.
It was the soft snores of the dog who sneaked onto the couch.
And it was all that was needed.
Katrina — This is so beautiful. I love the way this poem progressed from all the big monumental moments in life to the simple ones that we often over look. Those everyday moments are truly the ones worth cherishing.
Your last stanza is so striking… The images are clear and precise: “the settling sounds of the house” and chiming clock and “lambent glow of seashells.” I also love your use of S sound alliteration and consonants… It has a soothing shush to the end of the piece. Thank you for sharing your poem with us!
Oh so much to love here. The colors and sheen of the wedding gown are revisited in the glow of the seashells. I love how you show the big events with appreciation, but then bring us down to the intimate sound of the dog and the slant of afternoon light. Also love the word “lambent.”
So much fun to read this beautiful poem. Big little moments. I can’t wait to use this as a mentor text.
Thank you, Emily. I am using this prompt along with your poem and mine this Tuesday with my classes. I love your pantoum prompt on day two. Thank you for such great ideas.
Katrina, yes the small things that we hear and see everyday is sometimes what we remember most. I need to write some of those things down. It’s kind of like they are just inherently remembered. This is written lovely “lambent glow of seashells and sand dollars in the afternoon sun” – a favorite line. Thank you!
Yay Emily! I completely forgot this was going to be your month to lead us. I am in awe! Your poem is ON POINT for us who happen to be the “second daughter” and for us who never felt we measured up. But doggone it, you are a phenomenal woman and don’t you ever forget it. Your poem could easily have been describing my sister, my mom, and me. This part is spot on:
When I came, my mother told me I cried the loudest.
Already a nuisance, already difficult
Isn’t it remarkable how parents tell stories that let us know we were a problem from the start? I wonder why we do that, why they did that, why anyone does that. Wow, you’ve really made me think.
I love your poem and feel the last line all the way down into my soul.
?Stacey
As the third of four daughters, I gobbled your poem, adapting it to my own fight for love and acceptance. Thank you, Emily, for giving us a great mentor poem alongside your powerful model! This was a great way to start our August writing together!
Thank you so much for your sweet words, Stacey! Like many things, this writing has pushed me to reflect on all those questions too. I wonder what stories I will tell my boy.
Emily, I love your prompt and poem! Unfortunately, life is getting in the best of writing today. I’m going to have to double down tomorrow!
Emily, thank you for the prompt and model poems! I started brainstorming with your list…but my mind wandered to a current topic that’s been swirling in my head. At first, I thought I would be writing the anti-“indelible moment” poem because I could not pinpoint a specific memory or event, but as I wrote, I realized I had a whole catalogue of seemingly disconnected moments that coalesced.
*Trigger warning: subject matter includes abuse, assault, and rape (and some NSFW language)
Will this be on the test?
When did I learn
that I should carry my keys in a closed fist
that I should park under or near street lights
that I should lock and bolt the doors
that I should check the back seat
that I should leave a note for my roommate
that I should look for exits
that I should carry my drink to the bathroom
that I should clip whistles or pepper spray on my key ring
that I should keep the door open when alone with a student
that I should save my clothes and should not shower if I’ve been raped?
When did I learn
that I should not walk alone after dark
that I should not wear a tank top or cut-off shorts to the grocery store
that I should not show my belly or bra strap at school
that I should not meet a date at my house
that I should not give my professor a ride home after office hours
that I should not flip a bird or yell “fuck off” when boys cat call or stare from pickup trucks while
I cross the street in case he may stop the truck, reverse the truck, and follow me down the street?
When did I learn
how to recognize signs of abuse in other women, to question stories of stairs and cabinet doors
how to check for marks on wrists, bruises on necks
how to keep an emergency stash of cash and a full tank of gas just in case
how to break a wrist, kick a shin, gouge an eye
how to be wary of police reports and the efficiency of rape kits
how “boys will be boys” is a stronger legal defense than “I was unconscious” ?
When did I learn
this hidden curriculum
this second syllabus
this lesson without a text or workbook or lecture or PowerPoint presentation?
When did I learn?
gossip and innuendo
veiled warnings
scary emails forwarded from my grandmother
passing comments from well-meaning aunts and neighbors
a grainy video in 6th about sexual harassment (post-Anita Hill, pre-Monica Lewinsky)
lewd jokes by Late Night hosts
a Tori Amos RAINN PSA
song lyrics
mournful confessions in movies and TV shows
an episode of Saved By the Bell (maybe?)
tawdry soap opera storylines
judgemental anecdotes about “those girls” or “those boys”
sensational news stories, tabloid front pages
“Good Touch, Bad Touch” coursework in 4th grade
a self-defense class my Freshman year of college
whispered accounts from girlfriends and colleagues
When did I learn
how to react to a grown man in Walmart who moaned into my 11-year-old ear
how to push away my secret crush (5 years my senior) who kissed me in the church office
how to ignore the summer Honors teacher who gave me a copy of Faulkner’s Absolom!
Absolom! and who wrote me letters and who recommended I choose Lolitafor my senior English project
how to avoid my mother’s student teacher who sent me a weird birthday card for my 19th
birthday, who use to call me and tell me about his strained marriage and the sex dream he had about me
how to respond the optometrist’s assistant who asked if I was studying for my “MRS degree”
and if I plan to write romance novels
how to side-step the Dramatic Writing teacher who told me that he and his wife had an “open
marriage” and who offered to work with me on my audition monologue
how to forget the hook-up whose name I can’t remember
When did I learn
how to teach my brothers and my peers and my husband and my students and my future/potential sons
how to take care, read the signs, believe women, receive consent, learn the lessons
And why do we have to learn all those things? This is so powerful! And what amazed me was that so many of those things were akin to things that i have experienced—some of which I didn’t even think about at the time! What a strong statement of everything that is true—and needs to change!!!!
Right? While the specifics were different, her stories were mine as well–“some of which I didn’t even think about at the time”!
Betsy — this message is so intense, so raw and so very, very important. Thank you for sharing this poignant reminder of how women need to stand by one another and educate the men and women in our lives.
This is SUCH a powerful poem. Your use of repetition to uncover the layers of pain qs well as the different experiences that you have taken from endurance to education (first yours, then others) pulls in your reader in a way that up front retelling could not. I am a long-time abuse survivor; I have struggled to express my own pain and experience through writing. Your poem will be an inspiration.
Betsy, I want to use your poem as a discussion poem for my students. This stanza, placed after your first two stanzas, draws in the reader’s focus as we head into your final powerful examples.
When did I learn
this hidden curriculum
this second syllabus
this lesson without a text or workbook or lecture or PowerPoint presentation?
Thank you for sharing a poem that made me think hard about the untaught lessons we learn.
This is so powerful, Betsy. And so incredibly sad.
Betsy, this is a poem that must be shared to so many. Sexual abuse is such a traumatic event, and still women continue to be victimized; especially when they come forward. The lessons here say so much more., and I completely ache with the raw honesty here! Kudos!
The monster’s grip on me was strong
Seemingly constant
Pounding heart
Sweaty palms
Spinning, congested head.
It started in a gym
The walls starting shrinking
My breath increasing
My chest tightening
My voice going mute.
I walked over to Jason
Struggled out the words,
“Something’s wrong.
I’m fuzzy.
I feel like passing out.”
His focus was on the upcoming contest.
I walked away and helplessly paced
Looking for someone
Looking for an escape
Looking for a medic
Thinking about the closest hospital
Having no idea what was going on
But scared to death.
I chugged water and paced,
Begging for the game to end
So I could go home.
For months, this situation repeated . . .
At Mom’s Weekend
In front of the class
Driving home from a tennis match.
Quickened heart,
Spinning head,
Shaking hands
Is it my heart?
Low blood sugar?
An allergic reaction?
I read.
I researched.
I tweaked my diet.
ER trips
Specialists
Avoidance of public places
Pounds dropping off
Convinced I was dying.
I fled places I loved
Fetal position on our bedroom floor
Jason comes in from scouting
“You need to commit me.”
He was at a loss.
I was lost.
I finally acknowledged the problem.
Anxiety. Panic Disorder.
I had no idea.
I didn’t want to.
I didn’t want to see the signs.
Therapy saved my life
And I found a way to make the monster beautiful.
Susan Ahlbrand
15 August 2020
Susan, I hoped from the beginning that you would get an answer, you kept me holding my face, waiting for the fix. Thank God, you received the care and therapy that you needed. It must have been terribly frightening to experience all that and not really knowing what was happening.
I pictured this so vividly:
What hurts so much for me here is you were seeking help and it wasn’t there for you. No words.
Thank you for sharing this poem and your monster that you found a way to make beautiful. Such a loving forgiveness for your suffering.
❤️Stacey
Susan—I was hoping and hoping for a happy ending for you. My daughter has suffered with panic tracks—I never really understood—but your words made it real for me. Glad you were able to reach out for help, and to share your experience with us.
This line — “I fled places I loved” — broke my heart. My husband has anxiety disorder too. I’ve seen how debilitating it can be. I’m so happy you have found help.
First time here! Excited – and nervous – to join you all 🙂
Breaking Up with Red
Red is my favorite color.
The color of my first car that granted me
freedom. Red Mustang that compelled the streets to
be mine. Sixteen year old in charge.
Powerful. Fierce.
Red is my favorite color.
The pride of being a University of Houston cougar.
With my college student passion, I wore red with
dignity. Youth’s righteous anger emboldened by red.
Red is my favorite color.
On my birthday, everybody else celebrates Valentine’s Day; annual celebrations filled
with love and fun and zeal.
An eager 21 year old turned red
seeking adventure and energy.
Red is my favorite color.
I made sure to wear red each first day of school
to demonstrate to students that
reading and writing is not dull. Superstars, we are
brilliant, bright, and bold.
Red was my favorite color.
I felt red embodied me perfectly,
but I’m no longer that person.
I’m not sure when it happened;
motherhood? pandemic? changing friendships?
writing more?
Red is no longer my favorite color,
and it feels like a crisis. Like
I am lost. Like
I don’t belong. Like
instability.
Britt—welcome! Your poem takes me back through all those moments of red—all wonderful and exciting. It’s amazing how we change, though. I have a feeling that there will be moments of wonderful red again. We always find who we were, sometime…
Welcome, Britt! I love that you chose a color as your indelible moment. Colors really do say so much about a person. I make my students write color poems every year and it reveals so much about them.
I love this stanza:
I made sure to wear red each first day of school
to demonstrate to students that
reading and writing is not dull. Superstars, we are
brilliant, bright, and bold.
totally agree!
Britt,
It is great to have you here! Welcome to this lovely writing group. Your poem struck me because my favorite color is red too. I love the emotions and powerful images you gave to the color–fierce, power, dignity, righteous anger, energy, brilliance, brightness, boldness! So much in red. It would be fun to read another follow-up poem about what your favorite color is now. Or do you have a new one? Fun piece!
Hi Britt! Welcome! I’m fairly new here. I think this is my third month to participate. I live in Houston too and got my undergraduate degree from UH. I can relate to this feeling you describe – changing but not sure why and wondering who I am now.
Dear Britt: I love color poems, too! Your repetitive naming of the role of red through the years was such a deft intertwining of the role the color itself played and the emotions it brought forth. I think your last stanza speaks to what many of us feel now: old semiotics no longer function. The same old signs have somehow been twisted into something we don’t–or don’t want to–recognize. I felt it very accutely when the Supreme Court ruled that the president can object to subpoenas just because they interfere with his job, putting the president above the law. I taught special education, including preparing HS studentts for the Constitution Test–a version I had adapted. The very first item was “the Rule of Law means no person is above the law.” I felt like I had so betrayed students against whom the system is already set. In that moment, I was glad for the first time to be on disability. Thank you for a rousing and thought-provoking poem!
An Indelible Memory
An Indelible Memory
An indelible memory how can I choose?
There are so many I tend to use
to keep me out of the blues.
An indelible memory that first comes to mind
of a large hill I used to climb
Clear to the top with the sun on my back
and a clear view below.
I made the summit with sweat on my brow,
salt on my lips and sore knees.
Clear to the top where a “sweetheart tree”stood
with leaves moving in the breeze.
It’s trunk covered with initials of lovers.
I sat on a stump and heard music below
as someone walked by with a boom-box.
The sights and sounds kept me away from my chores.
I’d rather have stayed in the trees and with hawks.
My feet felt heavy as I trudged down the hill
towards bills and demands that beckoned.
Yet the indelible memory remained deep in my soul
and can return in a second.
This indelible memory is a place I can go
to drop my blood pressure and strengthen my soul.
When life has anxieties all I need do
is set my mind in that place where I used to stroll.
I love your place of comfort—moved up on the hill with you and sat, enjoying the day. I was there, in the trees and with hawks. I love that phrase…
Dear Susan: It’s 2am and I’m up with my migraine–and you have taken me home, over miles to Riverside, CA;and through years to a time my knees didn’t hurt! I had a mountain then, too, at the end of the block, part of a now-protected set of desert hills. Little Sugarloaf was just right for the sort of climg you describe. From its summit you could see the whole neighborhood, and hear much of it. I tended not to climb the hills, however, to escape, but rather just a small bouldrr, where I sat and filled Sierra Club notebooks with bad (yes, really) poetry. Today that landscape is 1000s of miles away and i live in flat Illinois. I still escape to my neighborhood parks, or just outside for a walk. And when it’s 2am or December, I also travel by memory. Thanks for the memory–this summer, I think it helps to share them and multiply our mental vacation possibilities.
“A Spark When Electricity Could Not Reach Us”
When I sat down to write you
your words refused me. I counted
the blinking cursor for so long
I forgot why I sat down
to write in the first place.
Sometimes, as I stare,
fingers at the ready,
the only voice I hear is
the Judge.
And he laughs,
deep and guttural,
chewing on the end of his cigar,
breathing his hot words:
“You don’t believe you can do this on your own, do you?”
“They’ll think you’re crazy, of course.”
“They are smarter than you. You know this, right? You must know.”
Each sentence precluded by a long drag and
exhaled with a plume of smoke
smelling like stale White Owl cigars and English Leather.
Each syllable keeping time with the beat of a vanishing cursor.
It wasn’t you who I pushed away,
it was the medium.
And I walked, hoping the fresh air would
unclutter my mind.
Upon my return, I reclaimed an old friend.
She is tangible, dotted, and welcomes my ink-soaked ideas.
There is no impatient cursor tapping on her pages.
No mistakes rest near her spine.
When I hold her she encourages
the rough-hewn words,
the looping squiggles, and
the sensible strikethroughs.
She says, “See! You already have a page!
Keep going! I can’t wait to read what you write!”
And the words flow like the gel from this
black Ink Joy pen scratching on the page.
When I sat down to write you
your words refused me
until I refused the backlit screen and impatient cursor.
You needed me
as much as I needed you
and we met
on our own terms,
in our own way,
a gift
neither one us
knew
we wanted.
Back to the full style of writing – Handwritten words on a page, authenticating the writer like a fingerprint of the mind-through-finger thought flow, complete with the pressure of the pen for emphasis of emotion- anger, passion, passivity, acceptance, impatience, haste, …..all of the feeling without the cookie cutter fonts. The page. Steered ink on the page. Yes!
Andy,
I, too, sometimes reject the computer for the comfort of a smooth-riding pen and a piece of paper. I love how you humanize the paper (anthropomorphism?) in the line, “She is tangible, dotted, and welcomes my ink-soaked ideas.” I also loved the stark contrast between the character traits of each medium, “the Judge” and the “reclaimed old friend.” So glad the electricity went off at your house in this indelible moment today.
Julie
Ahhh! This conundrum is familiar and constant. That opening pulls us in to the struggle. You give us the counting of the blinking cursor but add that detail – so long that I forgot why I sat down to write in the first place – perfect. I can hear the judge, the exhalation of sentences, and you bring us back to that blinking and impatient cursor. Grateful you found the voice today!
Thank you for reminding us of the power of paper and pen.
As my school pushes the we’re-going-paperless plan, I’m pushing back. There is also something ti be said for stepping away and coming back.
Who Am I Now?
Who am I now? A very good question.
One I really can’t respond to.
I can answer some other questions more easily.
Let’s begin with those, and work up to the “now” thing.
Who was I then? (SO much easier!!)
I was a first-born.
“You should know better…”
“I always wanted a sister…”
“Oh, honey. I thought you knew better.”
“She can’t help it.”
“You can do better.”
I was the first child.
I was an escapee.
From expectations, from shoulds, from musts.
I moved away, made mistakes (many), learned from them (mostly)
I disappointed my family.
Sometimes disappointing myself.
I was the escapee, saddled with guilt.
But I was the escapee.
I was a business woman.
Tall heels
Tight suits.
Strong handshake.
Long stride.
Lunches and meetings and…
None of it mattered to me.
But I was a business woman.
I was a mother. First one, then two more. At once.
Exhausted, full of love and worry and sometimes
missing that business woman I was before.
Doing the best I could. Loving them.
Not sure who I was then.
Not sure who I would become.
But I knew what I was.
I was their mother.
I was a (never-going-to-be-a teacher) teacher.
Serendipity. Volunteering, subbing, then…
Back to college at forty,
Mothering, teaching, studying.
A blur of time,
And then the three kids grown and gone…
But I still had teaching.
I was always a teacher.
And now.
Who am I? (back to that again?!)
I am retired.
A retiree.
I am not-a-teacher.
No children to raise.
No business to do.
(and the suits don’t fit, anyway, and I can’t walk in the tall heels)
Nothing to escape from.
Being first born doesn’t really matter.
Who am I now?
Who AM i?
Emily–as a first child (sorry…) I loved your poem! It expressed all the things that I imposed on my sister–and I understand the rift that you felt. How much hurt is unknown as we grow up. Your poem struck a chord in me–wistful and strong at the same time. BEautiful.
Thank you, Gayle, for sharing these lovely words. Birth order (from expectations to exhaustion) is interesting to me. I, too, am a first-born out of five birthed and can relate to many of the experiences shared in your poem. This line holds a lot of energy, “I was a (never-going-to-be-a teacher) teacher,” because, for me anyway, it mirrors expectations as a firstborn child as well as my initial reluctance to teach in the classroom.
Gayle, you are a teacher, a writer, a friend, an encourager, a supporter. The shoes change, but the heart never wavers. You are loved! This is heartfelt today, and it satisfies us all to know that it’s okay to wonder who we are from time to time.
Gayle! You are a teacher, of course! That never goes away. Your words teach us with each reading. I so want to know more about you as an escapee (be sure to share some of that in your future writing). I love that we get to know one another in these spaces. And I love how you address us at the onset of the poem, conversationally, matter of factorily!
Wow Gayle!
This poem shows your life’s journey in such a beautiful way even though your labels may not have always been ones you wanted to keep. I am all in there with you. As I creep towards the final years of teaching, I wonder what would be next. It’s sweet how you came into teaching later but knew you were always a teacher. Your poem really makes me ponder my journey. Thank you! I can’t pick a favorite stanza because I love it all. I did visualize these lines and saw you as the badass that you are!
I was a business woman.
Tall heels
Tight suits.
Strong handshake.
Bravo!
Gayle, as a first born and also a “never-going-to-be-a-teacher teacher,” so much of your poem spoke to me…Particularly the inner voices and the outer voices who have tried to shape or shame or push me. You ask and keep asking “who am I” and “who am I now”…. I wonder if it gives me more peace or more discomfort that the question remains and will go on unanswered. Thank you for sharing your poem with us!
Gosh, Gayle — This baby is really loaded, and I love it. You have unfolded so much of you! You are full of so many yous, and that feels wonderful. I believe that your having been all these different yous has made you extraordinary now…the woman of a storied past. I always refer to my different yous as “my other lives.” Even though, it’s all one wild ride, I sometimes sort through the “other lives” and feel like they are important stories. I love that business woman in the too-tall heels (now useless to you and to me). We share the “never-going-to-be-a-teacher teacher. I mumbled that always… it’s weird actually as I was a good teacher and loved the kids and the gigantic world of learning…and really all of it minus scoring student writing (ugh, scoring and writing should never be in the same sentence! )…but I was of an age during those college years when women had very few options (teacher, nurse, secretary, or get married and have a bunch of babies), and had no money or guidance to explore other options. But teachers we are, and I’m glad for that for you and for me and for the kids whose lives we dented in some hopefully helpful way.
Emily — Your mentor poem is gorgeous…a heartbreaker! The repetition of “second daughter” is so effective. The final stanza delivers with that “crack”…that breaking…forever broken. Oh gee whiz, what a blow! You captured the whole concept of “indelible” for sure.
And then you added Kwame’s poem…the metaphors for tornado child…wowza. Great inspirations today! Thank you!
Susie
Work in Progress, Toward an Indelible Difference
At 5
didn’t get color,
more kids to play with —
all I understood.
At 6
when the Jones boys
were told to sit along the wall
in desks too small
and Miss P told the class to sing
“Short’nin’ Bread” and “Old Black Joe,”
I started to see color —
so much I wanted to know.
In HS
bus 8
too often late,
delivered the Kinloch kids
with Winnie and Kenny tardy to class;
I saw their frustration, disappointment, sass;
never wondered why nor how the kids with color
decided to hold their countenance,
maintain graces;
didn’t wonder why some were angry,
some swaggered, some never smiled;
but I noted the teachers’ irritated faces;
I watched –
it stuck.
In College
in my bell bottoms, braids, and peace symbols,
in love with soul and blues and Imperial dancing,
partnered with the best dancers,
black students,
and got my first cruel dose,
from white friends,
hurling slurs,
and felt a tinge
of what 18 years of slurs, arrows slung
at my black dancing friends
might have felt like,
and I began to argue with dad
about his ever-ready
N word;
and learned that my home was part of the problem —
I was part of the problem.
Summer of 19
Tagging along with my eldest sister and her family,
at a roadside Arizona diner for burgers and fries,
innocent enough;
ordered at the window from a white, t-shirted, aproned skinny fry cook,
who turned back to the grill to slap down
four hunks of beef;
we stepped aside so the next order
from a well-heeled black family,
mom, dad, two little kids, could request the same
burgers and fries;
spatula pressing meat,
the cook kept his back to the order window,
till the dad repeated,
“Sir, could we order 4 burgers and 4 fries?”
to the deaf ears of a fry cook with no intention
of acknowledging,
Till Judy
stepped into her own,
“Sir, these folks have an order. Could you take their order?”
His pivot to the window eyeball-to-eyeball with my six-foot sister,
“We don’t serve those kind in here.”
The dad of the family took his wife and kids by the hand, turning
to leave, as Judy announced calmly
with a jaw locked that I recognized,
“Then, you can keep our order, as we will not be eating here”;
two families left an indelible mark;
sorting my scrambled awakenings
at a blatant act of white ugly,
back in the old hippy wagon,
my sister made clear the act and choice
to walk in another person’s shoes,
a moment of seeing the difference
between witnessing and acting with conscience –
a step in the journey.
As a Mid-Career Teacher
I kept trying not to notice skin color;
wanted things to be equal;
open the options, give every kid a shot,
help every kid in the same kinds of ways;
I wanted to be “colorblind”;
I strove to put Neosporin on a gaping, bleeding wound
to heal the chasm—
generations, hundreds of years
of brutal wrongs were not going to heal
with passive, impotent
salve –
I had to dig into the pus, the infection,
get uncomfortable.
Indelible Marks
required getting vulnerable,
asking people of color
easy and awkward
questions with wormy answers,
reading novels, histories, journals, poetry
by non-white Americans,
eyes open,
ears listening,
a mind recalibrating realities,
mining the wounds,
the losses
from systems that denied, ignored, erased
any person that was not in the power seat,
the white power seat of America –
in the time left,
I will stay journey-bound
toward making
an indelible difference.
by Susie Morice©
Susie–oh, my. What a story you tell. I wanted to stand up and cheer when Judy refused your order!! I will stay journey-bound with you, my dear!!
Susie! Wow. I held my breath for the family as the fry cook refused to acknowledge their order. And, I cheered when Judy spoke up! How many times have I not spoken up? With each stanza, the reader is compelled to see racism for what it is: damaging and ugly. Thank you for sharing.
Susie, in ever-moving signature fashion, you show us that moments and actions make a difference – taking a stand is An act of resistance that we can all do to be the change! This right here
Susie, your take on indelible (marks, difference) is brilliant here. The snippets of your history (I wanted more and more), the experiencing and the coming to know, take us on that journey with you. Judy sounds like my kind of gal, and I love the growing that you did through her!
Susie, Susie, Susie! I have a gazillion thoughts, feelings, and responses but of course that’s because it’s what you do when you write. I fell heart first, head second into your story. It’s raw and necessary. I have a question that doesn’t need a response here but maybe something we can talk about someday. Do you feel more inclined to…
now that we are in the state of change, or has it always been in you?
I ask because I am changing in more ways than I ever imagined and it’s because the “infection” left marks in me too.
I love you. I love your poem. I admire your passion to do the uncomfortable work.
Thanks, Stacey. Yes, let’s talk any ol’ time. For sure! Susie
Susie, your poem is so powerful. The attempt to heal the wounds is gripping. I so loved the diner episode where your sister stood up. I keep thinking why are people so cruel? Will things ever improve? I believe you are the kind of person who can make a difference!
Thoughts While Waiting for the Board of Education’s
Decision of What Will Happen in the Fall
or
The 5 Es Lesson Plan in the Time of COVID-19
Etymology —
Does school need to be
face-to-face? Does direct
instruction mean we are actually
in the same room, together?
Does school mean “the building,”
the brick and mortar — built
in the 1950s, faulty HVac system —
building? The word school comes
from the Greek meaning leisure
and philosophy and, yes, it also
means lecture place, but the
Google definition mentioned
leisure first, so we’ll highlight
that and besides “where I
lecture” isn’t as important as
where the “learning” takes place:
In the minds of my students. So,
in your face Aristotle — and don’t
get me started on the absurd notion
(and hugely problematic practice)
of requiring all kids to wear uniforms,
to sit up straight at their desks — in their
home offices? — while leaving their
Zoom cameras on.
Entomology —
Which leads me to the question,
what do these people — the over
200 people in this Zoom,
their little faces — or, as in this case
over 80% have their own cameras off —
just white names on black backgrounds —
what do these people think happens
In a school? Do they think we are all
Just worker ants, marching along,
lock step, all curricular activities
the same, being met and performed the
same way. Or to put it another way,
do they have this collective hive mind
thinking schools are safe because
they read it in their Facebook feed?
Ecology —
Have they never met a teenager
or a group of them working in
concert? Do they not remember
the PDAs In the hallways, the sitting
together outside classrooms, the
packed stairwells. Students
clump. They cluster. They take
back their agency when they can
to oppose the dreaded seating charts
and forced group work so often
imposed upon them.
Epidemiology —
And yet everyone now is an
expert on this disease, on
The effectiveness of masks
or face coverings, and yet,
still, we see so many people
wearing them incorrectly,
noses out, just hanging in the
wind, — or, perish the thought —
not wearing one at all, believing
it is their constitutional right
to spread their (possible) infections
to anyone and everyone to whom
they see fit.
So, yeah, we come to Epistemology.
That’s right. I said it — hard emphasis
on the second syllable — because
I’m angry now — waiting on pins
and needles — our very own bug
board — for these seven people
to do what’s right, what makes the
most sense and is safest for everyone
involved. So, I wait, listening
for the roll call that will determine
my fate,
which, of course,
is from Latin
meaning ‘that which
has been spoken.’
Scott — You have said SOOOOO MANY things that I am thinking! The clear, hammering tone of your voice is just like a jackhammer. Bam, bam, bam, bam! You’ve captured through the careful detailing of the lunacy of Zoom as “school” (so well defined!…. loved that), the vacancy of those policy makers who do NOT know what it means to be a classroom teacher. This:
Your discussion of students’ agency is spot-on! The notions, presumptions of what teaching really is, of what classrooms really are like is gaspingly missing in those pushing teachers, bullying teachers about what is required of them in these COVIDystopian Daze. It makes me “ePIStemologically furious!
Your poem is brilliant! I want to read this in the next NCTE Journal! Send it in for publication!!!
What a winner this is! Thank you for posting! Susie
Preach!!
A couple of things stood out to me–“their little faces — or, as in this case over 80% have their own cameras off —
just white names on black backgrounds”–the inhumanity of Zoom…
and also your last stanza–
“So, yeah, we come to Epistemology. That’s right. I said it — hard emphasis on the second syllable — because
I’m angry now — waiting on pins and needles — our very own bug board — for these seven people to do what’s right, what makes the most sense and is safest for everyone involved.”
I too am “pist”–there is no good answer, is there? But there is a scapegoat.
Well played–and happening everywhere right now.
Scott — I second Susie’s motion to submit this piece the next English Journal. You capture what so many of us are feeling. How easy is it to sit, well removed, from the reality of the classroom and say, “It shall be done!” These lines stand out: “thinking schools are safe because /
they read it in their Facebook feed”; “believing / it is their constitutional right / to spread their (possible) infections / to anyone and / everyone to whom / they see fit”; and “waiting on pins / and needles — our very own bug /board.” It is amazing that educated adults are leaning on FB headlines, choosing to see a virus as political, and opting to sacrifice children and adults with a shrug if they don’t get sick. Thank you for sharing.
A board meeting as a study in language . . . we are living in strange times, never did I expect government’s direct role in my career to have such a powerful impact upon my days, my health and the well-being of our community. I try to remain understanding as plans and schedules change every other day. None of us have ever lived through this. I love that you used this moment as a study in language.
Preach, Scott! My favorite—
“So, yeah, we come to Epistemology.
That’s right. I said it — hard emphasis
on the second syllable — because
I’m angry now”
Love your passion and your snark. Though I’m no longer teaching, I’m right there with you in spirit!
In Response to Emily’s Poem
Two Daughters – Two Worlds
I have two daughters – two worlds.
One is tall, dark-haired, and gorgeous.
Her eyes are almost black and can scan through you like an X-ray.
She is quiet, serious, and intelligent.
I have two daughters – two worlds.
The other is smaller, fair-haired, and dazzling.
Her eyes are big and expressive – they tell me everything.
She is audible, joyful, and bright.
I have two daughters – two worlds.
How could I love one less?
My Mom used to say:
If you hurt your thumb, does it hurt?
What about hurting your pinky?
Both hurt, right? The same is about your children.
I have two daughters – two worlds.
I take my Mom’s words close to my heart
And assure they don’t have to compete for my heart.
It belongs to both of them at all times unconditionally.
I have two daughters – two worlds.
I love my girls in stress, distress, and anger,
In moments of loss, doubt, and happiness.
They make my world complete,
Their two worlds are painted in different colors,
And each one is vital and precious.
I have two daughters
This is absolutely wonderful. The answer to every single “other” child in the world. And aren’t we all the “other” at some point. Your mother’s analogy, and your last two lines–Their two worlds in different colors, each one vital and precious. perfection.
Thank you so much, Gayle! My daughters are my everything, but it is my Mom who taught me how to love.
I also have two daughters and have been so blessed. One is dark the other blonde. Their personalities are so different from one another and that makes it even better. Yet, their facial expressions are the same and so are the family eyes. I hope they have learned their cherished place in the world now as unique and loved individuals.
Thank you, Susan! They are both grown up and have their families now. They tell me how cool of a mom I am, and it is such a wonderful feeling. Hope your girls are happy and healthy too.
This is giving me all. the. feels.
Beautiful!
Thank you so much, Emily! This is the first time I write in a public forum and the first time I share something very personal.
Understanding the Silence
This is going to be great!
I’m off to Barcelona.
I’ve studied a little Spanish
I’m ready. I can’t wait.
But, wait. It’s not Spanglish they speak there.
When I need to go, who will I ask where?
So, I’ll do some online lessons.
“I’ll be ready,” I say in confessions.
O wow! Look at the museum!
O wow! Look at the art.
What a treat to be touring.
I’m glad to be here. Now let’s start.
OOOOh! That coffee’s made its way through.
I’ve got to go to the loo.
“Ummmm. Sir, can you help me?”
Eyebrows rise and head shakes, “No!”
Ummmm. No, it’s not “baño”.
Oh wow! I’ve really got to go!
Oh my! Is that a damp tinkle?
Oh darn! Why can’t I think?
Nothings coming to me.
But something’s draining from me.
I shuffle to the front door
Where someone does speak English.
I scuttle to the “bany” and just miss the floor.
I understand the silence, now
When a new language one can’t speak.
It’s hard to access a new language
By studying for just a week.
Anna, I could feel your pain of having to tinkle! Your really made me smile. That would be an indelible moment for sure! ??
Anna, there are some really funny moments here! “Nothings coming to me. / But something’s draining from me” is a rather funny stanza. And I didn’t see the final joke of “for just a week” coming at the end, so I definitely enjoyed that one, too!
Scott, I exaggerated a bit, taking poetic license. I had studied a little Spanish, but relied on YouTube tutorials to learn the Catalan version spoken in Barcelona. I also think the young man could understand what I was asking! But, that’s a story for another poem. 🙂
Anna–needed this smile today!! I could practically feel your legs crossing at the end there!! And that week of Spanglish?? Haha!
Permit me to add the reason for the title, “Understanding the Silence”. Too often, before this trip, I wondered why my polylinguistic students or those learning English were slow to respond. After the trip, I realized it takes time to translate the questions into a language I understood, the scroll through the languages I know or am learning, figure out the grammar and pronunciation, and then to respond with confidence!
I recall, when teaching in San Diego, listening to a student talking on the phone in Spanish as he translated my message to his parents.
Traveling to Montreal, checking into the hotel observing the man at the desk switching from French to English as he waited on different customers.
In East Africa, listening to a principal answering the phone, speaking four different languages until she got to the one the caller spoke.
Then, thinking I was ready to travel in Spain based on two semesters of Spanish taken during my prep period! Ha!
I now understand the silence!
Thanks for this memory today, Anna. It made me giggle because I am sure all of us have had the problem of urgently trying to express our needs in a different language. Then the words “Oh wow!, I’ve really got to go!” have been said by me many times.
The Wedding
By Nancy White
Trembling I waited
Clutching my daddy’s arm
As I scanned the sea of faceless heads
That suddenly rose to face me as I stepped slowly down the aisle.
Trembling I waited
To stand by my tall, slim groom
We smiled nervously and I heard
The rustle of clothing, settling into a hundred pews.
Trembling I waited
As we kneeled for Holy Communion
Aware that our eyes were leaking tears
Knowing that our unity was eternal
And the Spirit very near.
Trembling I waited
Through words and more words I couldn’t hear,
Anxiety building in the warmth and stillness,
Not feeling safe in my own skin.
Trembling I waited
For the kiss that said it all,
The joy that swallowed fear
It was over! I could breathe again!
We grinned ear to ear
Together to the throng that cheered!
Nancy, what beautiful moments- the send of apprehension and anxiety and nervousness – and I love the way the kiss of joy swallowed the fear. Perfect word.
Nancy, you placed us right there with you – in the nerves of faceless people, the sound of rustling fabric, in the spirituality of the moment (that gave us a breather too, in the midst of this). And most especially in the joy of the kiss and the aftermath and the grin. Beautiful memory!
Nancy, I really enjoyed the subtle rhythms you crafted in your lines: “We smiled nervously and I heard / The rustle of clothing, settling into a hundred pews.” They echoed and mirrored the content of your piece!
This is beautiful, Nancy. The refrain, “Trembling I waited” reminded many of us of those times we prepared for something special and recalled our event as we shared yours.
That’s the power of poetry. We often can see ourselves as we read about others.
Emily, your poem is powerful and visceral.
“I follow her every move and try to be
The perfect copy paste”
“Poised or reckless, you can have one
But you can’t have them both”
“On the crisp white tablecloth linen
You hear like a crack over the hum of innocent diners“
I can feel the pain and frustration. It stirred up memories of feeling that I could never please and of being ignored as the youngest.
Reply all
born of code 0s and 1s; a mechanism
of efficiency. My recipients feel
the blast of my craft instantly; they
access my words with a touch, swallowing
Arial phrases en masse when subject lines
entice body messages owned
by my signature.
Reply all
default chokes unintended guests
privy to quips, gripes meant for Reply; they
access my confessions with a gulp, choking
Verdana disclosures when subject lines
shatter body messages also owned
by my signature.
Reply all,
you might know, ought not be a feature
of automaticity, nor should quips
or gripes that gulp and choke, so
allow me to introduce you to
Recall for the days rapid clicks
and wittcisms get away from you.
Wow! I love this creative piece, highlight how the “Arial phrases” and “Verdana disclosures” display the “blast of [your] craft.” You definitely have an effective and expressive craft. I can almost physically feel the “gripes that gulp and choke” as my mind conjures up past communications that I have created! However, I indulge in all of your (and other) “witticisms” that hopefully don’t “get away from” us. Bravo!
Your poem took me back to times when I too choked and gulped after clicking “Reply all.” What a talent you have to be able to use such technical words and fill them with emotion!
My favorite line: reply all….. ought not to be. Standing ovation of experience on this one! I sense a strong feeling of OH NO regret after hitting the wrong button. And the sure whispers when we see folks in the halls eyeing us like we hold the keys to their email jail and won’t let them out. Great choice of moment!
Oh, boy! There should be an “are you sure?” every time one hits Reply all, just to make sure we are very, very, very sure. The percentage of need on this choice must be very low (we’re either inundated with reply all’s that we don’t all need to see or get that oops! more often. Thank you for giving life to the coded 0’s and 1’s, for bringing spirit to that mechanism.
Sarah, Well done! I like your word play and deliberate consonance throughout the piece, from “Verdana disclosures” to “gripes that gulp and choke.” And I also really liked the “subject lines / entice body messages” shift to “subject lines / shatter body messages.”
Reply all–perhaps the greatest fear of email. Your last stanza–[reply all] ought not be a feature of automaticity–oh, how true! Bringing in Verdana, Arial–I have searched in vain for the font that will truly represent me in my emails! your talent glows here!
Thank you for taking on the errant child “Reply All” in such a light-hearted manner. Thank goodness for Recall.
I Have an Agachupa by Jolie Hicks
I have an agachupa!
Bright, white teeth captured between a dark curved smile,
Sandy, bare-footed pitter patter racing along the Rwandan landscape,
Youthful, pursuant peals of laughter echoing across the hills,
The happy child implores, “Agachupa!”
I have an agachupa!
Neatly groomed brows furrowed in quick confusion,
Servant heart racing to understand this innocent joy,
Sky blue eyes scanning the horizon of nature divine,
I ask, “What’s an agachupa?”
I have an agachupa!
Supportive, dark hand resting on my shoulder,
A gentle soul merging two paradoxical realms,
His red and black plaid shirt tail flapping in the wind,
The national team member explains, “Plastic water bottle.”
I have an agachupa!
Pulled from a crisp, new polyester duffle outlined in turquoise triangles,
The water-logged, peeled up paper label wrinkles in the grasp of indulgent hands,
Cool, clear, industrial-bottled liquid quenching afternoon thirst,
This agachupa embodies access and opportunity.
I have an agachupa!
A beaming, healthy baby tied around her torso in a bright, multi-colored fabric wrap,
Carefully balancing a three-gallon, yellow container atop her beautiful bald head,
Nimbly walking miles to the nearest needed water source and back again,
She contentedly comments, “Agachupa.”
I have an agachupa!
Looking at the near-empty plastic moment, mimicking the condition of my heart,
Pondering the true meaning of life like an ecclesiastical author,
Eyes wide open, observing the majesty of humanity, earthly in all its art,
I speak with revelatory emphasis, “Here. Take mine.”
She has an agachupa!
Lowering the bulky, yellow water supply from her beautiful, bald head with the ease of a dancer,
Delightedly accepting the small, plastic offering like the joy of her swaddled child,
Dipping the empty bottle into the well of life-sustaining liquid,
She generously extends her benevolent hand, “Agachupa.”
I have an agachupa!
Jolie! So good to see you in this space, to be alongside you in this way of poetry. And thank you for taking me with you to revisit this memory. I feel like I was transported to this beautiful landscape. I am swimming in the lines “With eyes wide open, observing the majesty of humanity, earthly in all its art” — you show such gratitude and appreciation.
Sarah
Jolie, I love that we learn so much from one another here. I read, waiting for enough context to understand agachupa, at the start of the piece. And love the beauty of that word, how it flows from the tongue like water over a falls or tumbling over rocks. How it is beautiful in its importance to these people, in the eyes of the swaddled child. I loved this line:
This beautiful memory took me out of my house and into a very different life–one that I hadn’t considered. You build the story with skill and paint word pictures so that we can enter your space with ease. Agachupa…
This is a beautiful example of human sharing and need. I love it. I love learning the new word and the visuals you depict of life in another culture. We are a people of many differences but so much human and the same.
“A beaming, healthy baby tied around her torso in a bright, multi-colored fabric wrap,
Carefully balancing a three-gallon, yellow container atop her beautiful bald head,”
I am reminded of sitting in a house in Nepal next to a woman and baby which she let me hold. We could not converse but the baby wore the same type of hand knitted booties and my babies.
I hope you are recording more memories like this in verse.
A gift for Anna
A younger version of myself setting out to be an adult,
lived far from family, happy to be adopted by some.
Shared Thanksgiving and Christmas with open armed hosts,
received with small acts of grace and appreciation.
New versions of familiar traditions shared with me,
curious to experience familiar a new way.
Dressing baked outside the turkey, smooth and creamy
finished with gravy.
Christmas not Chanukah, gifts for everyone from everyone,
unnoticed who’s family.
Long ago a thank you note sharing my sentiments with a wish for recipes,
followed up with small pages of handwritten copies.
And when the granddaughter married,
a perfect gift came to mind – her grandmother’s handwritten recipes framed.
A memory preserved in glass given,
with the thought of connection of family and sharing.
I began smiling at these lines, “Dressing baked outside the turkey, smooth and creamy / finished with gravy.” and by the end had tears welling in my eyes. I treasure most the handwritten notes my mother wrote in the margins of photocopied recipes and photocopied handwritten “grandma” recipes friends have shared over the years (in that perfect cursive!). To have an original seems utterly precious!
Jamie,
First, I just adore seeing couplets. I am not sure why it strikes me so today, but visually, the couplets are comforting. I love how your poem is a narrative, a story of the past bringing us to the present and the artifact that carries gratitude. Love the line “a memory preserved in glass given” — so beautiful in meaning and sound.
Peace,
Sarah
Oh, Jamie, what a beautiful story! I’m struck that you remembered the handwritten recipes and thought of that beautiful family heirloom to be given to Anna. What a joy and I’m sure it was an indelible moment for her when she saw them and for you when you gave the framed recipes.
Jamie, those memories of recipes preserved in glass mirrored for me the glass of old – canning jars and antique colored glass – things a grandmother might use. What a beautiful gift to pass along and what a way to share that connection between generations! Thank you for sharing this today.
Thanks for the gift, Jamie! You may have learned that not only is my name, “Anna” but my middle name is Jamar, for my maternal grandmother who was called Jamie all her life! Anna is the name of my paternal grandmother!
You’re familiar with the reading response proposed in the 1990’s by Dr. Rudine Sims Bishop called, “Windows, Mirrors and Sliding Glass Doors”. Well, your poem provided all for me. I went to a high school that had the majority of students of Jewish descent. It was Chanukah more than Christmas celebrated there!
As I read, I was wondering, how does Jamie know so much about me and my family?
“curious to experience familiar a new way”–what a lovely expression. and the last two stanzas–a gift of words about the most perfect gift possible…
As I read the list of suggested prompts, each brought it’s own flood of memories. I love Emily’s take on child order. I am seven of eight children and am fascinated with only child or smaller family perspectives. I teach college, so my memory and future thought are placed in that space.
It was the first day of school
after they found N
on a wellness check at his home
he died sitting in his chair
cuppa tea left steeping in the kitchen
I had to meet his students
tell them he would not
be coming back
I asked them to take out
a blank sheet of paper
write down their thoughts and feelings
share if they wanted
It was the first day of school
after 9/11
I grappled to make sense
how to make any of it matter
whether anyone would
even show up
the class was full and silent
we opened our blank books
filled them with thoughts and feelings
we would all look back on
each decade later
It was the first day of school
after the pandemic
it hasn’t yet arrived
but I can already understand
everything we’ve lost
everything I loved most
now the mounting fear
and resolve to make it work
each day I open my journal
make note of cases and deaths
locally and globally
so many thoughts and feelings
still yet to come
Stunning and crystal clear moments in time. I love how the first reaction is to journal…record those thoughts, look at them later. Beautifully written.
“It was the first day of school” and always the restorative nature of writing is present in these difficult times. Thank you, Denise, for your healing poem. At difficult times, we get through–“so many thoughts and feelings / still yet to come” and there will always be the writing that helps us through.
Denise,
The clarity and weight of each moment is felt. I feel it, and I am struck by how strong paper is. The sheet of paper that can carry the death of a teacher, the terror of a nation, the bodies of the pandemic. Thank you for holding these moments in the poem and in your notebook.
Peace,
Sarah
Denise, you bring us together and settle us in alongside you in each of these three impactful moments. Your writing now ties us to the writing then. Your thoughts now to our thoughts then. You ground us in these ground-zero moments. Thank you for putting us alongside you today.
Denise–yes. all of it. yes. Those moments that stay the same no matter how much time has passed. What will we have as the focus moment for this time? Will one shine out, or are there too many to sort? The moments you shared are poignant and huge. What will we hold from 2020?
You are so right about the adhesive quality of those first day afters. This one (the first day after the extended uncertainty of the pandemic) was different from any I recall. Rather than the normal first day jitters, the hopes of getting off to the right start, it was worries about the lack of adequate PPE. It was anger at the system that dares us to get sick and lets us know how inconvenient it would be if we did so. No kidding, I have never felt less appreciated as a teacher than this day after.
Emily, the ending of your poem has such a powerful impact. The crisp imagery is beautifully developed and is such a paradox to the horror of the comment overheard. Thanks for sharing such a thought=provoking poem and mentor texts.
In the Sandbox
Momma washed my duck down hair
In the kitchen sink
Then painstakingly clipped the
Silky thin strands into
rubber pin clips
Hoping to create
Some kind of curl
To my impossibly straight hair
Anxious to join my friends outside
I begged for release even
Though my head was full of pink
Momma reluctantly agreed
“Try not to get too dirty!”
Her only words
My best friend Curt
was in the sandbox
with Brad Reid who was busily
bottling a muddy water concoction
He swiftly dumped over my head
All of Momma’s careful work
Ruined by one
Hateful action
To this day
I still wonder
Why
Barb Edler
August 15, 2020
Barb,
There is a whimsy and sadness to this poem for me. I feel the tension between a parent’s work and a child’s work — two sandboxes with very different ideas of what it means to create. It seems like you were the canvas for both, and I wonder, if this were a verse novel, what happened next. Love the phrase “duck down hair.” That has me thinking and imagining.
Peace,
Sarah
Ha! I can picture this the whole way through. I wonder why you needed curls that day? Was it special?
Barb, wow! What a memory. I can see your mom and your “duck down hair” filling up with pink clips. What a memory to sit through that with your mom and with one thoughtless action have it ravaged. Interesting that you used both names of the bully. That does seem to be how we remember bad players. Perhaps we don’t want anyone to mistake who it is to beware of. Thank you for sharing your memory.
Sometimes it’s the smallest things that leave a lasting impact. Childhood memories can be so vivid. A feeling, a smell, a taste can make them come back. I loved:
“Momma washed my duck down hair
In the kitchen sink
Then painstakingly clipped the
Silky thin strands into
rubber pin clips“
I was sad when I read about the hateful boy. Those kinds of actions are felt forever. Not OK.
Barb – the pivot in the middle from all the care and planning and hope to the disastrous ruin at the end balances on the fulcrum of the dumping. The action swift and catastrophic after so much effort. It reminds me of a toddler knocking down stacked bricks. I absolutely adore the “duck down hair.” The texture and visual is beautiful.
Thank you for putting us there with you. I remember that kitchen sink and those spongy pink curlers.
Emily, I’m certain I cannot decide which stanza I like best – you enter as the shadow, a copy paste with distorted edges yet everything about you is defined for readers through your word choices, your mother’s finish lines, your placement in the family structure. And then you describe this rift swallowing you whole at the neatly detailed meal. This is an incredibly powerful piece evoking so many emotions, least of which the wonder of how I might have defined my own children. (You have surpassed the inspiration piece here!)
birthdeathday
By Jennifer Guyor Jowett
I stand at the precipice
teetering
feet not quite as firmly grounded as you want
hand reaching airward
grasp coming up empty
mind whirlwinding
It only takes one step.
I stand at the precipice
over my shoulder
the solid world of box houses
and gridded streets
wooden block trucks
an eight pack of Crayola colors
Pick one!
I stand at the precipice
what I’ve known
lies behind the crayoned scribbles
of an angered child
spilling black tears
their swirls gathering
Color Harder!
I stand at the precipice
before me
a clouded chaos
in paint by numbers and
connect the dot outlines
barely shaped from shadows
SEE IT
I stand at the precipice
the flux and fuse
tearing and taping
melting and forging
tidal turn of decision
shouting, shouting
(something I cannot hear)
*I meant for the italics to be indents and am not sure how to fix that since the options go away once you try to edit! I stand between deciding to return to the classroom and giving up a part of me that is more than a job.
Jennifer, your poem is so moving. I am completely in awe of the emotions developed through the actions and the end is so gripping. I keep being pulled back to your final lines “shouting, shouting/(something I cannot hear). I It reminds me of momentous moments that just keep us reeling.
Jennifer,
I have read this several times to bear witness to the “I” who is recasting the past around a literal or figurative coloring of a childhood. I am struck by the “you” (thinking of who this is) and the lines with exclamation points and all caps that feel like orders but also shaming– the drawing, the lines, and the “I” as the target of “you’s” self-loathing. I am sorry if I am off here with my reading. I want to silence the shouting — not the sound (because the “I” is strong to silence it) but the pain that resounds.
Peace,
Sarah
The overlap of imagery from one stanza to the next is a powerful pull throughout this piece. I felt a tension building and caught my breath and this line, “Color Harder!” I exhaled and OMG as I read the next stanza and then the next. There is a real unease expressed through the final and/and/and phrasing – with that final line, even shouted, unable to be heard. A loss, a disconnect through all that emotion – but at the same time, I sense a need to make a decision or be decisive. And that final line – as Joseph Campbell says in the monomyth theory – eventually, the hero has to make the journey alone – it makes me sense that the speaker now has to or has made a decision – all by herself, with no voice in her head. Fascinating.
[I also don’t understand how to use the formatting!]
Jennifer,
I am struck by the precipice of the birthdeathday. Such a powerful title that keeps us reading. I want to sit and talk to you about this poem and the theme of the coloring. Such a powerful final stanza and the momentous “tidal turn of decision.”
Jennifer. Wow. Just wow. You sucked me in, took me on a tension filled ride, and dumped me off at the end. that last line–shouting (something I cannot hear)–doesn’t release the tension. AFter reading your postscript, I understand–the hardest decision you can make. It is so much more than a job… you have all my feels! (and the formating??? whatever…)
I love the ambiguity of your lines. I can envision a kindergartner maybe about to cross the street to begin first grade. Then again, life puts us at the precipice again and again.
Emily, your poem is sharp, focused emotion. I feel the sadness in it, the competition. I want to share this with my sister. Thank you for such a great mentor poem.
I meandered a bit with writing today. I try not to write long poems–but I ended up doing just that. It was a nice walk down memory lane.
A Girl’s Education
Begins with understanding
I make you smile
you like me
I like you
I feel better when we smile
By the time a girl enters school
A girl’s education
Grows to decode red, yellow, green, blue…
shapes, letters, days of the week
She plants a zinnia seed
In a paper cup to watch it flower
A girl grows beyond arms
and legs, eyes, nose
a girl’s education
enlists best friends; a lost girl
named Dorothy, her dog, Toto
a little house in a big wood
Margaret and Colin’s garden
All the real and pretend friends
thrive with the girl when she finds an old pen
nibs and bottles of ink. She will write to friends
A girl’s education
becomes the world she imagines
she draws mushroom houses for fairies
writes her first poem, dips a brush
into a paint box and colors this swelling world
By now the girl is a master of arts
learning at her own pace and speed
She explores veins in the creek
scooping up gray-blue clay in delight
A girl’s education
brings echoes of Iroquois women
pounding air pockets out of the clay
into pinch pots and animal bowls
carved with a stick cleaned of bark
A girl’s education
widens and deepens
as she goes
adding more to her story,
coloring, carving, writing
memory into her days
never stopping her
Growing
Growing
Growing
Linda, the little zinnia seed blooms beautifully as this poem expands. I love how you bring the references of children’s literature and clay pots – arts that shaped you as you grew, grew, grew…..your path down memory lane Is our blessing today! Beautiful.
Linda, there is such joy found throughout your piece today – I’m so glad you kept going and going and growing and growing! You capture the curiosity and the imagination children have so beautifully. This lifted my heart!
Oh, Linda, you have brought us to ponder “education,” and I am struck by how it is not the same as school or schooling. A girl’s education comes in so many ways, but you show us in the doing, the action, the being, the books. The final lines show us that an education is ongoing to help us imagine possibilities. I would love to see this in a picture book.
Sarah
Linda, the sharp imagery throughout this poem is so commanding. The end is uplifting as I feel like life is a series of learning and through these experiences we continue to grow.
Linda, what a lovely education you write about here. So many beautiful images and memories came to you as you wrote this. These friends from literature have to be my favorite part, though. I love how you wrote this:
Then I love how these friends thrive when you find the pen and nibs and all the creations you make with those.
This is beautiful! I especially liked the references to books (I know them all!) and the growth throughout. adding more to her story. Indeed.
Thank you, Emily, for this prompt. It was a great exercise to list indelible moments. I have quite a list that can serve me well in the future when I need an idea. Thank you also, for sharing your poem. Dear Emily, that indelible moment over the side salads was a gut-punch. Thank you for entrusting it with us. Your poem is powerful and painful and beautiful. I also enjoyed listening to “Tornado Child” by Kwame Dawes. Thanks for sharing it and using it as a mentor poem today.
I am the confident and careful driver, unaware of dangers
His ’67 truck was given to my mom
when Uncle Guy died
because Grandma didn’t drive
And had no use for it
A few years later our neighbor got a new camper
I am the confident and careful driver, unaware of dangers
Their second-hand cabover camper
Became our home that summer
It was the hermit crab shell
our Chevy had been longing for
Though maybe still needing to grow into
Top-heavy in the wind
Barreling down the highway
I am the confident and careful driver, unaware of dangers
I was still 16 years old that summer,
less than a year’s driving experience
And awfully unseasoned when it
Came to that extra ton on my back
We shook, rattled and rolled through
Deserts and over mountain passes
I am the confident and careful driver, unaware of dangers
Aunt Josephine didn’t believe I was, though
She came with us for part of that trip and
Peeking through the crawl window in the truck cab,
Over her shoulder
She’d give my mom a play-by-play of my driving
Mom was just wanting to rest while I took a turn
My shaggy-haired 14-year-old brother was my co-pilot
I am the confident and careful driver, unaware of dangers
That summer we took a loop tour of the West–
California to Arizona to Utah,
Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, Washington, B.C., Oregon
and back to California
And we did it all without incident or accident
I am the confident and careful driver, unaware of dangers
I wonder why I didn’t remember that when
My own girls learned to drive
When they took the wheel, I sat in the passenger seat
And dug my fingernails into the upholstery
Flinching when they got too close to the shoulder
Why did I become a confident and careful driver,
overly aware of dangers when I became the mom?
Ha! Fabulous ending. Isn’t it amazing how some adults in our lives just trusted us with big things like driving vehicles with camper shells on the back?! I enjoy your use of repetition. I like the memory in your story. Thanks for sharing this.
Denise, oh how true! Your repeating line had me waiting for the wreck that never came, thankfully. This reminds me of my favorite line from Charlotte’s Web when Fern and Avery are in the barn swinging: “children always hold on to things more tightly than their parents think they do.” I think of that line often when my now grown children teeter along new challenges. I love this – and I can see that camper rolling along!
Denise, I loved reading your poem. I imagined it as a colorful children’s picture book. As I turned the pages of each verse I could see the Chevy and the “top-heavy” camper “like a hermit crab” “barreling down the highway” through the landscape. I could see the people in multi-colored images – Aunt Josephine peeking through, you and your brother in the cab front, and mom’s exhausted expression. Your repeated line was the perfect oxymoron – careful and confident contrasted with unaware – for the newly-minted driver that you were that summer. – Julie
Denise,
The use of bold italics and punctuation here really shows the visual power of writing. This poem has such a sense of place but also movement, which makes sense given the “driver.” But the movement here is also in the pronoun shift to “they” took the wheel” and the “dug” and “flinching” when you shifted to “passenger”. There is also something about the word “shoulder” that has layers of meaning — the road but also alongside one another and to lean on.
Love it,
Sarah
Denise, I want to be on that loop trip with you! Everything about the wild turtling weight of a camper and the passengers makes me yearn for this adventure. You entice us in by not telling too much (I thought this was going in a different direction), then you add the almost reckless abandon (I thought that would turn out differently), and bring us to the very satisfactory ending (which I also anticipated differently). You show us driving through the eyes of a 16 yo, who lives with death eons away and through the eyes of experience, all-knowing of what life may hold. Well done!
Denise, I am so full of laughter after reading your poem. You brought back so many memories and I was reminded of my sheer fear and panic when my own sons were learning to drive. I’m afraid I was very unwilling to let that control go. To this day, if I am not the driver, I am in a state of panic. I truly enjoyed how you began with your own memories of driving on this special trip to teaching your girls to drive.
I rode with you from stanza to stanza a little worried about what might be around the next turn. I found a memory of my father who always pressed his fingers against the glove box hoping to slow down the vehicle. Beautiful images of your travels. A sweet one – She’d give my mom a play-by-play of my driving.
Denise, you brought back memories of crazy things I did as a teen with no fear. It is interesting how we become fearful for our own children when they become teens. I guess it’s because in hindsight we can see the dangers we survived. Oh to be young and unafraid!
excellent!! All that confidence–so many beautiful descriptions–and then the ending, when all of it flew away! YES!
So, I guess I’m up early because I couldn’t keep my brain from ruminating over the past three days of online back-to-school training and the anxiety that comes from trying to do something when you don’t know what you are doing, ie “remote learning” again. Up popped the monthly writing challenge on my email. Writing something this morning… I feel completion and accomplishment. Emily, thank you for such great inspiration. In your mentor poem, I was stunned by the visual clarity of the “moment” expressed in your last lines – white linen tablecloth, crisp side salads, the hum of innocent diners. My poem today has been rattling around in my brain for 15+ years. I’ve written it down once before, but never quite like this.
The Reading Room (Highland School, Downers Grove, IL)
by Julie Gedgaud
In the “reading room”
bright midday sun
streams through ceiling-high windows
red geraniums
grace the window sill
We sit
at the circular table
two third-graders
with me
writing little messages
to float away
on red helium-filled balloons.
Joanie,
nine years old
and wise beyond her years
crayon in hand
asks
Who do you want to write to?
He says
My daddy.
I don’t know what to write.
The words hang in the room.
Eight years old
but he’d never met his daddy.
Prison and an untimely death
had kept the two apart.
Sweet Joanie,
she knew the words.
They’d float up to heaven
she said.
Seared in my memory.
Important words.
Healing words.
He wrote
Daddy, I love you.
I miss you.
So beautiful…from the concrete red geraniums to the not knowing to the sensible response from Joanie. I love the honesty and childlike quality of this.
Julie, it’s always amazing to me how just a
Couple of words – innocent and simple- can bring tears. Fifteen years – like wine……it uncorked at just the right time! Perfect.
Julie!
First, I so miss you and wish we could be co-planning for the new school year of possibilities. I bet the poetry on the blog prepared you for all the tech and online learning ahead, but no matter what, I know your compassion will come through any digital divide.
This poem is so powerful and really tender in its line breaks and movement from beginning to end as the words emerged and floated from trauma to healing.
Hugs,
Sarah
I so miss you, too! It would really be nice in this season to have a trusted mentor/colleague/friend to bounce ideas around and help me get past my funk of not knowing what to do! I will survive, though!
Julie, such care nourishes your writing today. The healing interaction between the third graders. I love the lines, “she knew the words. They’d float up to heaven.” The sharpness of the red in the geraniums on the sill and the helium-filled balloons and in the word”seared” finds its way as well. Thank you for sharing today!
Julie, wow. What a touching and beautiful story. Joanie, nine-year-old philosopher, was really needed at this important time. I wonder if this is an indelible moment for him. too. I guess that his words had an effect on you and your relationship with your father, too.
So now I am crying. This is so simple and so beautiful. I was in the room with the three of you. And it hurts…
Emily,
Indelible moments – words that change our trajectory- what a topic of impact! Your line about trying to be the perfect copy paste gives us an analogy of trying to ski in the older sibling’s wake. This is real, raw, and painfully honest – exactly the way you feel. You ARE loved! And the lessons we all learn along the way help us know how we want to show love to our own children. This I know: your sister is standing in YOUR shadow when it comes to writing.
I, too, share a recent indelible moment – about 3 hours recent – and it’s horrifying. Readers beware. Strange what pills will do to “keep us well.” Backstory: negative COVID test – but take this COVID Cocktail to prevent it……
Apologies for the length…..
Melatonin Dreams of the COVID cocktail
an assortment of vitamins and
melatonin-
1 to 3 milligrams A half hour before bed
as tolerated
what does that even mean?
as tolerated
I’d heard sleepless friends say melatonin causes nightmares
(in my dream
I was supposed to be at a horse rodeo
but never saw
the first horse
I was in a big eatery
first at a table with people I didn’t know
two little Italian boys
twins, maybe 5
talking about desserteria
and then selling $1.75 trinket rings
as a fundraiser
my own dad suddenly appeared because my mom wanted one)
Mom
in heaven in real life now and dad
who never offers to pay for anything anymore
(offered to pay for my ring but I scrounged up my own quarters)
quarters from the same Ziploc sandwich bag
I keep in my Caribbean Blue Rav 4 console
that I actually
-not in a dream –
had used to make the change part of my grilled chicken lunch
from Big Chic yesterday
in the drive thru in the sudden deluge
for $7.06
-a twenty from
my purse, a nickel and penny from the bag,
two fives and three ones back-
(so I asked the little boys if they’d been to Italy and one said
yes, he’d gotten an Italian haircut there
– and kept eating his desserteria
what is an Italian haircut?
is desserteria even a thing?
his huge group of older relatives
strangers I’d never met started getting up from
the next table and had all the Italian features of olive toned skin and
Ray Romano noses
and glared at me like I had crossed lines with their boys
I stared back with oomph
squinted my eyes at them
meeting their challenge
asking with my expression:
how dare they?!?
I’m not the one who let them sit at a table with total strangers
eating desserteria
spend some time with your kids, my eyes accused
it suddenly seemed like we changed from a restaurant to a train car
further down the mallish corridor I saw
a work
colleague)
-from real life
– her family I’d heard all had COVID in real life
(and then Joanie and her husband)
I actually saw in real life
– not just in this crazy dream-
eating barbecue at the Oink Joint in Zebulon this week
(on the walk I saw
my friend Peg
praising the pho
so the Asian girl behind the counter asked me
what I wanted and I ordered
“what they were having”
since I don’t know enough about pho to know,
pointing at Peg and Mary)
water ballet fisherwomen
married friends of mine who’d left their husbands for each other
back around 2002
(but I left the line for a minute
– I do not know why –
came back, got in line to pay for the pho
and realized – no money!
reached in the pocket of my sweater
wait, no,
-this was Mom’s Korean sweater)
-because in real life this week Dad had mailed me a box with her Korean jacket and two Gladys Taber books-
Stillmeadow and Sugarbridge
and
My Own Cookbook
(and I pulled out-
what is this?
foreign currency?
paper bills with unknown faces on them
a five and a one
not knowing whether it was stronger than the dollar or weaker
a young black girl
about seven years old
pulled out her own foreign currency to pay for hers
glanced at me and said something
about the food?
in some language I did not understand
I hoped the foreign money might work
– hers did
where was I in this international rodeo?
in the eating area
a lady named MooreAnn was there with her husband
they were showing how they’d made all these jigsaw puzzles
but neither was clothed and they were hairless and plopped against a wall covering themselves with their arms except for one exposed flat and droopy breast
expressionless lumps
not saying a word while someone else talked for them
a girl ran out from behind a counter to get a cigarette and a light from someone standing by the wall who seemed to know what she wanted without words
then she ran back to work behind the counter
someone said it was MooreAnn’s daughter and I said she looks like them
only with clothes
she was wearing running shorts and a T-shirt
running with a lit smoke and a smile
next there was a labor room where
newborn naked babies were on display
lying on twin beds with their dads while the moms were off somewhere else
-God only knows where-
one baby was cute but way bigger than all the rest and had a disproportionately huge head
his bottom was way too plump in a babyish sense and when he lifted his head to grin
I saw two buck teeth
up top and little teeth on the bottom
and asked how he’d been born with all those teeth already in and how was he already that big?
he had to have hurt
a random
lady there to see the babies told me he’d surely have a brain tumor later
I quipped back it was sad how we don’t know all the answers and why does God let us go through things like this?
those poor parents
facing a baby with cancer
and then I went back to a room
– like a hotel room but not –
to get things to go home
-wherever home was
I was making a right hand turn
in the far left turn lane and maintained my lane
but a car next to me
had me wondering if he would do the same-
I was hyper-aware
but the car stayed in its own lane
I asked whoever was in the car with me
-I knew them but had no idea who it was –
how to get back
– I didn’t know where back was –
but no answer from
the back seat passenger
the roads were dark and desolate and I didn’t know where to go
I guessed at it and saw a child
a girl of about ten
wearing magenta shorts and a shirt walking on the edge of the road
-finally, someone who was dressed-
I went around her
-but a child?
-on a dark highway?
-is this not strange?
And this was when things got worse
I saw the boy
a clothesless boy
about 8 years old
had been hit by a car
and was lying in the road screaming for help
should I stop?
– of course I should
stop
I missed hitting him and pulled to the side to try to help
but the Rav was going too fast to stop
up next in this Melatonin nightmare – another body this one already dead and bloody
and I could not tell anything at all about the victim that
like some roadkill
had been hit several times
and then I saw nothing but blood spots on the road the further I went
and I convinced myself I should turn around
because we may be next if we kept going down this road
I spun the Rav around to take a different way
– to go back and turn onto the road
I had passed
and saw that the car that had been behind me had spun around too
I wondered what
that driver
thought
in this dream of terror
or
-wait!
we’re they in on the killings!?)
4:21 a.m. in real life-
-thank God I’m back-
jolted awake by the horror
bolt upright!
No more Melatonin for me!
Enough.
No. More. COVID. Cocktail.
I’ll take my chances.
I choose real life!
wide awake
I get up from bed in this log cabin in FDR State Park
stumble to the toilet
hear a sound
I’m thinking hubby is behind me in line to pee next
the same way our two dogs line up
for the same spot
I hear popping sounds on the wooden floor
creaks the whole time I pee
“Hey, baby?”
no response
I go back to the room
– there he is in bed
fast asleep
as he was when I left
in this haunted cabin #7
by Lake Delanor
In FDR State Park
On Saturday,
August 15,
2020
WOW! First, I read the whole thing…because I wanted to keep reading. The dream quality of this story really kept pulling and pulling me along. It’s crazy and not crazy. I love how some of the details are so kooky and some are so intimate. The children, the sickness, the names of the restaurants are funny and so close to the real ones. I simply enjoyed this all the way through. Well done.
Whew, Kim — that was a whirl of images, fragments of subconscious that had me feverishly moving my eyes across and down the lines for the next addition to the collage. The COVID-19 cocktail alongside the haunted cabin in FDR State Park have me wanting to pull the blankets over my head but keep my eyes open. This is something. I wonder if you were still coming out of the “dreams” as you wrote — how else would you be able to remember this so vividly. Alas, I am glad you are back with us safely.
Kim, that was one powerful COVID-19 cocktail! You managed to capture that dreamlike quality throughout your piece. We use melatonin here and I’ve always wondered if the dreams happen because your mind is able to settle into sleep and get into the REM place that it can’t otherwise. Though I’ve never experienced anything like this. And it makes me wonder what my brain might concoct now that I know the possibilities!
Kim, your ability to recall all of these nightmare details is amazing. I can feel the fear and chill of these strange moments; the way you share the idea that the cabin is haunted is especially intriguing. I surely can relate to the horror of dreams that seem to make no sense; I was totally captured by the narrative!
Oh, Kim, I am on the edge of my chair and I had laughed aloud at least six times when I got to this description og MoorAnn’s daughter:
I thought I was almost finished at that point, but no, like your dream it went on and on and on. Laughing, guffawing, and then, like your dream, the abrupt scary images that caused you to wake up. That poem was a priceless record of a dream, and all the details show just how powerful that “cocktail” was because how else could you remember those details. (No one could ever make up a dream like that! I’m glad you recorded it.) I don’t blame you for taking your chances on Covid and choosing real life. Just wow!
KIM — Sell this to Hollywood! You’ve got some rabid, fevered, mess of a saga going here. I was literally glued to every turn in the dream road! Holy cow! The naked babies…LOL! I was dyin’! …big teeth! LOL! How in Tarnation did you ever pull back all the details of this nightmare? The dark road certain has some Freudian mojo goin’ on!
This had me in stitches:
And this:
You have hit a marker here… unlike any piece I’ve ever read! FUN! INSANE! High FEVERED!
Thanks for a great laugh this afternoon! Susie
Well, I wrote a comment earlier in the day, but for some reason, it did not post. Let’s just say, I laughed all the way through to the point of tears… even when reading about dead bodies!
Emily,
Thanks for the thought-provoking challenge.
Your mentor poem was a stomach punch for me as I am the second daughter and I have two daughters (and two sons). I worry constantly that our younger daughter feels like you…captured perfectly by your words.
While i love the entire thing…the message, the words, the images…I especially love this stanza:
By nature, I’ll always lose. It’s hard to win
The race when you start three years late.
This race my mother made, though she did so
With no words or finish lines – just her tone and judgment
I guess I better get to work!