Brille el sol
And set those clouds on fire
But only for an instant,
and then
The delight Is gone
like the flash
Of a wind-exposed thigh
Or a bemused grin
Granted just once
For you-
Unseen by the rest-
A hint of a heaven
Ephemeral.
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Saturday, September 6, 2014
Social currency
On Facebook yesterday,
I saw a Buzzfeed post,
a photograph of a dead German Shepherd in a coffin
mourned by his handler,
a police officer in dress uniform,
and a crowd of sympathizers looked on.
According to the post,
the dog was slain by a suspected car thief,
who, wielding a knife, stabbed the dutiful shepherd multiple times
until he himself was shot down by the canine's officer...
And the caption and accompanying text did not name
the man who died in commission of the crime.
Rightfully so.
If only while reading a poem about mortality in English class,
I, this boy's teacher, could have had some special insight.
I could have looked him in the eye and warned him,
making those universal truths more personal...
Would he have believed that one day his death would mean less than a dog's?
I saw a Buzzfeed post,
a photograph of a dead German Shepherd in a coffin
mourned by his handler,
a police officer in dress uniform,
and a crowd of sympathizers looked on.
According to the post,
the dog was slain by a suspected car thief,
who, wielding a knife, stabbed the dutiful shepherd multiple times
until he himself was shot down by the canine's officer...
And the caption and accompanying text did not name
the man who died in commission of the crime.
Rightfully so.
If only while reading a poem about mortality in English class,
I, this boy's teacher, could have had some special insight.
I could have looked him in the eye and warned him,
making those universal truths more personal...
Would he have believed that one day his death would mean less than a dog's?
Monday, September 1, 2014
Labor Day
Grandma Hardy knew labor.
I mined her for stories when I was little,
until I learned that she only had three or four
retold over the years
emphasizing the ironic pride and bitter love
that she wore like a badge over her heart.
"When your great grandmamma fell sick,
my daddy turned a washtub over and set it next to the stove
and told me to make biscuits.
And so I did."
"With no one to show you how?"
"Oh I had learned from helping,
but I was on my own.
Those first biscuits were as hard as rocks!
Your GreatGrandDaddy spanked my bottom and told me,
'Don't you ever make them that way again.'
and so I never did."
Grandma Hardy was always a good cook,
but the habits she learned in the farm kitchen of her youth
would make health inspectors sigh.
Late in her life, when the doctors forced changes on her,
she served her beans with an apology,
"There ain't but a bit of lard in them beans..."
When her eyesight was failing and the phlebitis was taking her legs,
her sons refused to till her garden for her,
demanding, good-heartedly in their stinginess, that she stay inside and rest
but they didn't consider what that kind of rest does to a laborer's soul.
She stood up at church one Sunday morning and asked for prayers,
"I ain't had a vegetable in the past six months that didn't come from a can!"
and the congregation murmured in horror at the thought.
One of her favorite stories seemed to go back to the Garden of Eden in its innocence:
She told about the time she was running back from the tobacco field
in her summer dress, and how she jumped over a branch that slithered away
and how the serpent nearly took her breath away
and how her brothers warned her that it was the kind of snake that "threw its sting!"
and I'd try to show her my Peterson's Guide to Reptiles of North America
to dispel the myth,
but knowledge had no weight in the guiding light of her upbringing.
She showed me how to make creamed corn,
slicing the tips of the kernels with a hundred-year-old knife,
honed so that its original edge must have been an inch away
from the steel that bit and sliced across the fresh juicy cobs of sweet corn.
She'd turn the blade and use the thick back to squeeze the remaining juice from the corn,
and bits of sweet corn splashed and dried on our forearms and faces and the smell of the earth's
richness filled the tiny dining room where we worked,
and I felt the ties that bound us to the field and the sun and the bounty
of labor.
I mined her for stories when I was little,
until I learned that she only had three or four
retold over the years
emphasizing the ironic pride and bitter love
that she wore like a badge over her heart.
"When your great grandmamma fell sick,
my daddy turned a washtub over and set it next to the stove
and told me to make biscuits.
And so I did."
"With no one to show you how?"
"Oh I had learned from helping,
but I was on my own.
Those first biscuits were as hard as rocks!
Your GreatGrandDaddy spanked my bottom and told me,
'Don't you ever make them that way again.'
and so I never did."
Grandma Hardy was always a good cook,
but the habits she learned in the farm kitchen of her youth
would make health inspectors sigh.
Late in her life, when the doctors forced changes on her,
she served her beans with an apology,
"There ain't but a bit of lard in them beans..."
When her eyesight was failing and the phlebitis was taking her legs,
her sons refused to till her garden for her,
demanding, good-heartedly in their stinginess, that she stay inside and rest
but they didn't consider what that kind of rest does to a laborer's soul.
She stood up at church one Sunday morning and asked for prayers,
"I ain't had a vegetable in the past six months that didn't come from a can!"
and the congregation murmured in horror at the thought.
One of her favorite stories seemed to go back to the Garden of Eden in its innocence:
She told about the time she was running back from the tobacco field
in her summer dress, and how she jumped over a branch that slithered away
and how the serpent nearly took her breath away
and how her brothers warned her that it was the kind of snake that "threw its sting!"
and I'd try to show her my Peterson's Guide to Reptiles of North America
to dispel the myth,
but knowledge had no weight in the guiding light of her upbringing.
She showed me how to make creamed corn,
slicing the tips of the kernels with a hundred-year-old knife,
honed so that its original edge must have been an inch away
from the steel that bit and sliced across the fresh juicy cobs of sweet corn.
She'd turn the blade and use the thick back to squeeze the remaining juice from the corn,
and bits of sweet corn splashed and dried on our forearms and faces and the smell of the earth's
richness filled the tiny dining room where we worked,
and I felt the ties that bound us to the field and the sun and the bounty
of labor.
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
A Loss
A Facebook post from a former colleague alarmed me. It was a news story from Oklahoma about a suspect being gunned down by a police officer. The photo under the headline was of a black German Shepherd police dog that died as a result of the suspect's having stabbed him with a knife. What alarmed me was that my former colleague described the story as having involved one of her former students.
I read the story until I saw the name of this former student. Mark Salazar. I knew that name. I saw the image of a nice Hispanic youth with closely buzzed hair. He was a tough guy, but never disrespectful. Surely, it wasn't the same boy. I scanned the story, scrolling until I saw the photo at the end of the story. It was him. 22 years old. The dog got top billing, and for many who read the news, this will seem appropriate. Just another piece of trash dealt with swiftly. He won't waste any tax payers' money by being processed in the judicial system.
But for those of us who knew him, the story leaves troubling questions unanswered. Why did our boy end up in a robbery in Oklahoma? What did we miss when he was in our classes? Was there something we could have done to turn him a different direction? When we spend 50 minutes a day, five days a week with someone who is in a class with 29 other kids, how well can we actually know him?
I have nothing eloquent to say about this tragedy. It just sucks. I'm sorry for the officer who had to kill this young man. I'm sorry for the dog who died doing what he was trained to do. I'm sorry for the Salazar family who will never be able to get their boy back. I'm sorry that for whatever reason, Mark Salazar found himself dying this way.
I read the story until I saw the name of this former student. Mark Salazar. I knew that name. I saw the image of a nice Hispanic youth with closely buzzed hair. He was a tough guy, but never disrespectful. Surely, it wasn't the same boy. I scanned the story, scrolling until I saw the photo at the end of the story. It was him. 22 years old. The dog got top billing, and for many who read the news, this will seem appropriate. Just another piece of trash dealt with swiftly. He won't waste any tax payers' money by being processed in the judicial system.
But for those of us who knew him, the story leaves troubling questions unanswered. Why did our boy end up in a robbery in Oklahoma? What did we miss when he was in our classes? Was there something we could have done to turn him a different direction? When we spend 50 minutes a day, five days a week with someone who is in a class with 29 other kids, how well can we actually know him?
I have nothing eloquent to say about this tragedy. It just sucks. I'm sorry for the officer who had to kill this young man. I'm sorry for the dog who died doing what he was trained to do. I'm sorry for the Salazar family who will never be able to get their boy back. I'm sorry that for whatever reason, Mark Salazar found himself dying this way.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
Thinking about the First Day of School
This weekend has been a pretty nice farewell to summer, despite the fact that my truck is in the shop with a $500.00 repair bill waiting for me on Monday. I'm excited about tomorrow, and not a little apprehensive as well. I will be teaching Art and Electives at the Alternative Discipline Center for our school district, which means I will be working with those high school kids who were suspended last year. I will be part of program that is completely new to me, with new people and procedures.
After years of teaching High School English to classrooms full of students, it will be strange to have only a handful of kids. I won't miss every aspect of teaching English, but I know I will miss the students I had the blessing of working with last year. They were incredibly conscientious and sweet-spirited, for the most part, and they made coming to work every day worthwhile.
I wish I could have been a better teacher for them last year. It was the worst year of my life personally, going through the separation and divorce, and having to get used to commuting again, after years of living one mile from my classroom. It literally took me less time to ride my bike from my front door to my classroom than it did to walk across the parking lot. When I got to school, seeing my students generally made me smile, despite the frustrations I was experiencing inside.
There were the sophomores who were a little goofy, but were still capable of communicating with adults like human beings, and there were the AP Literature Seniors who were ever aware that graduation was coming soon, yet still gave a solid try at most of the things I asked them to do.
I've never been a well-organized man, and grading papers has always been a challenge for me. After teaching for a full 8 hours, I found it next to impossible to sit still at the end of the day to grade writing. My eyelids are like the screens on a smart phone, if they rest idle for a moment, they black out. I've tried staying up with a fresh brewed pot of coffee, but by the time I had consumed 12 cups, I was just a jittery mess, and not really better focused on the task at hand. And last year, with the emotional turmoil of being alone, I found quiet time with a stack of papers very disconcerting.
I started making peer evaluations more a part of my day, when I realized that the kids could, when working in concert with a clear rubric, give fairly accurate evaluations of their own writing, but this was never as satisfying as it should have been. I remember my wizened old English teacher would write barely legible notes on my papers when I was a kid, and those notes could inspire me to write better or crush me when I knew I had not written up to her expectations. When you have 160-180 students, and you spend just a minute on each paper, the time adds up. I was never able to spend just a minute; instead, I would get bogged down, trying to think of the best advice to fix a poorly constructed sentence, sometimes rewriting a whole paper before getting frustrated and just writing a number at the top of the page that roughly represented what I thought they deserved.
Now, someone else will be worrying about that task, as well as the standardized testing our politicians have given us to make sure kids are learning. A.P. Exams are no longer my concern. Starting tomorrow, I will be in completely different world, and tonight, my thoughts are racing a bit.
Across town, I know my boys are in bed already. My youngest will be starting first grade, and he is excited because his kindergarten teacher has moved up with him. He learned so much from her last year, and he is eager to be in class again. My oldest will be returning to regular public school after spending two years at FWAFA, the Fort Worth Academy of Fine Arts. We were thrilled when he was first accepted into their program, but we had hoped that he would receive more support in his primary artistic concern, playing guitar. He learned a lot about music through being part of the Texas Boys' Choir, but he missed playing sports. Starting tomorrow, he will be attending the same school where his mother teaches art, and he plans to try out for soccer. My nephew, who lives with me, will be attending his old high school, and seems enthusiastic, if not for the work ahead, for the chance to see his close friends who attend with him.
My ex wife, bless her heart, is probably more stressed than I am. The last time we spoke, she still had not received confirmed schedules, so she will be unable to prepare for her first day the way she would prefer. She is a natural planner and a maker of lists, so not having her student rosters has got to be stressful for her.
It's time for the serenity prayer, I believe...
After years of teaching High School English to classrooms full of students, it will be strange to have only a handful of kids. I won't miss every aspect of teaching English, but I know I will miss the students I had the blessing of working with last year. They were incredibly conscientious and sweet-spirited, for the most part, and they made coming to work every day worthwhile.
I wish I could have been a better teacher for them last year. It was the worst year of my life personally, going through the separation and divorce, and having to get used to commuting again, after years of living one mile from my classroom. It literally took me less time to ride my bike from my front door to my classroom than it did to walk across the parking lot. When I got to school, seeing my students generally made me smile, despite the frustrations I was experiencing inside.
There were the sophomores who were a little goofy, but were still capable of communicating with adults like human beings, and there were the AP Literature Seniors who were ever aware that graduation was coming soon, yet still gave a solid try at most of the things I asked them to do.
I've never been a well-organized man, and grading papers has always been a challenge for me. After teaching for a full 8 hours, I found it next to impossible to sit still at the end of the day to grade writing. My eyelids are like the screens on a smart phone, if they rest idle for a moment, they black out. I've tried staying up with a fresh brewed pot of coffee, but by the time I had consumed 12 cups, I was just a jittery mess, and not really better focused on the task at hand. And last year, with the emotional turmoil of being alone, I found quiet time with a stack of papers very disconcerting.
I started making peer evaluations more a part of my day, when I realized that the kids could, when working in concert with a clear rubric, give fairly accurate evaluations of their own writing, but this was never as satisfying as it should have been. I remember my wizened old English teacher would write barely legible notes on my papers when I was a kid, and those notes could inspire me to write better or crush me when I knew I had not written up to her expectations. When you have 160-180 students, and you spend just a minute on each paper, the time adds up. I was never able to spend just a minute; instead, I would get bogged down, trying to think of the best advice to fix a poorly constructed sentence, sometimes rewriting a whole paper before getting frustrated and just writing a number at the top of the page that roughly represented what I thought they deserved.
Now, someone else will be worrying about that task, as well as the standardized testing our politicians have given us to make sure kids are learning. A.P. Exams are no longer my concern. Starting tomorrow, I will be in completely different world, and tonight, my thoughts are racing a bit.
Across town, I know my boys are in bed already. My youngest will be starting first grade, and he is excited because his kindergarten teacher has moved up with him. He learned so much from her last year, and he is eager to be in class again. My oldest will be returning to regular public school after spending two years at FWAFA, the Fort Worth Academy of Fine Arts. We were thrilled when he was first accepted into their program, but we had hoped that he would receive more support in his primary artistic concern, playing guitar. He learned a lot about music through being part of the Texas Boys' Choir, but he missed playing sports. Starting tomorrow, he will be attending the same school where his mother teaches art, and he plans to try out for soccer. My nephew, who lives with me, will be attending his old high school, and seems enthusiastic, if not for the work ahead, for the chance to see his close friends who attend with him.
My ex wife, bless her heart, is probably more stressed than I am. The last time we spoke, she still had not received confirmed schedules, so she will be unable to prepare for her first day the way she would prefer. She is a natural planner and a maker of lists, so not having her student rosters has got to be stressful for her.
It's time for the serenity prayer, I believe...
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Silver maple...Acer saccharinum
"All the good ones leave."
"Excuse me...what did you say?"
"I said, 'all the good ones leave.'"
"Why would you say that, kiddo? You know it's not true."
"The last one was the best one, and she left."
"Look, son, it's not a matter of 'best' and 'worst,' she didn't fit."
"Mom left."
"She did. I know. But we didn't fit either."
Silence filled the cab of the truck as we lumbered down the gravel road.
The child's truth must be balanced by a kind parental lie.
"Look, son, when the right one comes along, it's all going to work.
Until then, we learn something from each new friend we make along the way."
Silence, except for the gravel crushing under truck tires.
"If mom didn't fit, then why did you cry so much when she left?"
"I wasn't ready to change when she left. I'm getting there.
Being together defined us, but now I'm free to find a better fit."
"Dad, I'm never gonna get married."
"Never? That's a long time. We'll see."
"I made Mom cry the other day. Over our house. I told her it was the last thing I have of all of us together."
"Don't be cruel to your mother, boy. That house is just a thing. I never even liked that place."
"You planted fifty trees and a hundred plants around that house; I told her I'm going to go and dig them up and plant them in our new back yard."
I imagined my garden growing in his stepdad's yard. "Son, there's nothing special in those plants."
"Dad, they are symbols."
"I'm proud that you want to keep a garden, but I planted those things for the next generation that lived there. I knew it wouldn't be us, son."
"You did? Then why..?"
"Every place you go, you should leave a mark. Something that will live beyond you, boy."
"Remember that silver maple you let me plant, Dad? It's taller than the house now!"
"Brittle wood...we should have planted it further from the house."
"No Dad, it looks strong. It's big around as your leg even."
"A tree that grows too tall too fast... you can almost guarantee the wood will snap in a storm. Oaks grow slow and steady...you can count on them to last."
"Is that why she left, Dad?"
"Your mother?"
"No, the new one."
"Maybe so, son. Maybe so."
"Excuse me...what did you say?"
"I said, 'all the good ones leave.'"
"Why would you say that, kiddo? You know it's not true."
"The last one was the best one, and she left."
"Look, son, it's not a matter of 'best' and 'worst,' she didn't fit."
"Mom left."
"She did. I know. But we didn't fit either."
Silence filled the cab of the truck as we lumbered down the gravel road.
The child's truth must be balanced by a kind parental lie.
"Look, son, when the right one comes along, it's all going to work.
Until then, we learn something from each new friend we make along the way."
Silence, except for the gravel crushing under truck tires.
"If mom didn't fit, then why did you cry so much when she left?"
"I wasn't ready to change when she left. I'm getting there.
Being together defined us, but now I'm free to find a better fit."
"Dad, I'm never gonna get married."
"Never? That's a long time. We'll see."
"I made Mom cry the other day. Over our house. I told her it was the last thing I have of all of us together."
"Don't be cruel to your mother, boy. That house is just a thing. I never even liked that place."
"You planted fifty trees and a hundred plants around that house; I told her I'm going to go and dig them up and plant them in our new back yard."
I imagined my garden growing in his stepdad's yard. "Son, there's nothing special in those plants."
"Dad, they are symbols."
"I'm proud that you want to keep a garden, but I planted those things for the next generation that lived there. I knew it wouldn't be us, son."
"You did? Then why..?"
"Every place you go, you should leave a mark. Something that will live beyond you, boy."
"Remember that silver maple you let me plant, Dad? It's taller than the house now!"
"Brittle wood...we should have planted it further from the house."
"No Dad, it looks strong. It's big around as your leg even."
"A tree that grows too tall too fast... you can almost guarantee the wood will snap in a storm. Oaks grow slow and steady...you can count on them to last."
"Is that why she left, Dad?"
"Your mother?"
"No, the new one."
"Maybe so, son. Maybe so."
Monday, August 18, 2014
Petrarch and Laura and you
Petrarch, poor fool,
loved Laura from afar.
If Laura was anything like you,
who could blame the sad monk
for dreaming and desiring
and wiling away the hours
letting words do what he would not allow his body?
Like him, I have no peace,
I can not now make war nor love,
to impress you, except with words
and rough-drawn sketches on a flimsy page.
If Laura had ever kissed Petrarch,
we would never have known the beauty
of his rhythmic lines,
the nuances would be lost...
who writes a poem
when ephemeral love lies in your arms?
So if my lines tire you, there's an easy remedy:
His love lives on in the lines of his poetry
because he never tasted her lips...
in ecstasy and agony, he let his
pent-up passion pen his prayers.
Even when his words described
an idyllic woodland stream or a field full of lavender,
Laura, like you, was at the heart of each line.
So be careful when you kiss;
one might be tempted to believe that heaven
is wherever you happen to be,
then prayers and poems would have to wait
as I will for you.
loved Laura from afar.
If Laura was anything like you,
who could blame the sad monk
for dreaming and desiring
and wiling away the hours
letting words do what he would not allow his body?
Like him, I have no peace,
I can not now make war nor love,
to impress you, except with words
and rough-drawn sketches on a flimsy page.
If Laura had ever kissed Petrarch,
we would never have known the beauty
of his rhythmic lines,
the nuances would be lost...
who writes a poem
when ephemeral love lies in your arms?
So if my lines tire you, there's an easy remedy:
His love lives on in the lines of his poetry
because he never tasted her lips...
in ecstasy and agony, he let his
pent-up passion pen his prayers.
Even when his words described
an idyllic woodland stream or a field full of lavender,
Laura, like you, was at the heart of each line.
So be careful when you kiss;
one might be tempted to believe that heaven
is wherever you happen to be,
then prayers and poems would have to wait
as I will for you.
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