Weather Conditions

Her face struck me, in a sad way, in an "awww" kind of way - 
downcast brown eyes forced me to see I had been thinking only of myself.
I was relieved at the thought of a snow day, even giddy -
many of us, overworked and unappreciated get to feeling that way
this time of year.
But not her, nor her little friends.
Several of them were downright disappointed at the possibility of NOT having school.
What kind of kid doesn't LOVE a snow day?
That would be the kind that sits in my room
looking at me expectantly for the next big thing...
prime numbers, possessives, paragraphs,
and PEMDAS.

Niña, I think to myself, I need this day. 

Maestra, she says with her eyes, I need you more.

Cumplida

I've finished book #52 this late afternoon! I've met my goal for the year and I'm feeling quite good about it.


My last selection of the year, suggested to me by my husband, was Mary Oliver's Red Bird. And on this evening of resolutions and looking forward to the New Year, Oliver's book of poems is very fitting for me. Through her observations of the fox, the river, the turtle, and many other gifts of this world - including her pet dog Percy - Oliver reminds us to pay attention to what is alive and around us, to be aware of nature and the way you feel, and the way it feels.

Beautiful.

Books, books, and more books!

When we rang in the New Year 2010, I resolved to read a book a week this year.  It's been a challenge to keep up the momentum, but it's also been exciting to see my virtual bookshelf fill up on Shelfari.  My shelf is at the bottom of my blog here, if you care to take a look.

So far, I've read 42 books this year!  I MUST read 10 more books by New Year's Eve or I'll be disappointed in myself.  No matter what is happening in my life, I absolutely have to read everyday, or I get to feeling like the day was a waste.  During the day, I plot how I'll get schoolwork, errands, and housework done in time to get in bed by 10, so I can read for at least an hour before going to sleep.  It's what I look forward to all day...

My husband, @TheAmericanPoet on Twitter, honored me with a poem about my reading quest. Please read it at his blog, Crowned with Laurels.

Buen provecho

On my desk and shelves,
in my bedroom, on my bedside table
piles of books, stacked as high
as they'll let me. These towers
built with mixed bricks,
flavors I want to taste.
Afraid I won't have enough
like a binge-eater, I read until full
never feeling like I'm done.
Quiero más.

I skip words when I speak,
I can't come up with what I want to say
but my mouth utters one, two, three disparates
until the right one comes.  
Have I overindulged?
These ideas swimming together,
sorting themselves out, do they
cause me to misspeak?
Should I watch what I read?
Or should I fill up even more,
because there's always more to be had.
No one ever watches how much I read.
They'll judge my plate, eyebrows raised,
but not my shelves.

Me sirvo más.

Macrame

Blue bandanna taming

wavy brown hair
tied and tucked under
at the nape
faded flare jeans
plaid western shirt with pearlized buttons
and platform sandals.

It was the bracelet that drew me in,
brown knots and beads.
I wished for one,
and unwrapped it on my birthday.
She was college life,
l'air du temps
sweet potatoes with allspice in the kitchen,
and rice with pigeon peas.

Asynchronous

Napkin on kitchen table:
Fed the animals, coffee’s brewed. Might want to
let the dog out one more time. Drink your juice.
See you tonight.

Text message before lunch:
Did u call dr? Don’t forget! Luv u

Email, after lunch:
Tried calling, keep getting put on hold so
will try later. Dumb doctors. Bring Chinese for dinner?

Reply email:
Yes, Chinese. No worries – keep trying, leave message
for MD to call you asap.

Reply email:
Cancel Chinese please. Stomach’s in turmoil. Hot soup?

Reply email:
Whatever you want – talk later, boss coming.

Whispered voice message from 4 pm meeting:
Soooo tired. Can’t wait to go home. Finally reached the
doctor – we’re on for tomorrow. Yay!

Voice message, from car, loud:
One more stop hon, and I’ll swing over to Roma’s for your soup and
fresh bread. How ‘bout that? Huh? Taking care of my baby… see you in a bit!

While he waits for her soup and his sandwich, he goes next door where the bell
rings as it swings against the glass, and the curly H promises just the right words…
not one for flowers and pastels –
he settles on blue
the color of a dream he has, about to come true.
He retrieves a pen from a wrinkled shirt pocket, and
leaning against the counter,
writes

You and me, we’re in this…

Student to Teacher

I taught one of my favorite lessons today, and was reminded of how exciting it is to take children to the next level. The lesson was part vocabulary, part poetry, part metaphor, part Black History Month, part "this is your teacher telling you she wants you to keep trying".

We read this poem together. I choked up on the first read, as I always do. Hughes does that to me. We then read it in parts, we role-played, we talked about message and meaning, and the poet's use of the vernacular.

No, I don't teach high school English. I teach 4th grade English Language Learners.

"Did you like this poem?" I asked as the bell rang for lunch.

"Oh YES Miss! That's how my mom talks to me!"

"Now THAT's some good advice he gave in the poem."

"I LOVE how you read that Miss!"

"Can I keep the paper Miss? Can I memorize it?"

"Let's do another one tomorrow Miss!"


Mother to Son, by Langston Hughes (1902 - 1967)

Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor --
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now --
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

His Running Shoes

This’ll be tedious –
I know
you have a hard time
making up your mind
I drag myself to the sports store
For the eighth year in a row
I used to pick and choose
What you’d wear on your feet
To school
“These are cool” I say
Noting the reasonable price-tag
“These seem light and comfortable”
when the very washable mesh fabric and darker design
Catch my eye
But this year you’re drawn
To black with yellow piping
Crazy combination
“You’ll grow tired of these fast” I mutter
You try them on
Even have your dad tie them for you
Even now…
Big boy with long legs
You jump to your feet, bounce in place
Feeling the cushion, the give, the flexibility
Things I must learn to be –
You pretend to run around the shop
Testing how swiftly you’ll run
As I watch your feet grow at heart-pulling speed

Qué se puede decir

Todo lo sabe Dios,
las cosas pasan por algún motivo -
frases habladas con el intento
de calmar y
buscar razón en los eventos de la vida.

No te aconsejo nada,
me quedo callada.
Solo te miro y
me siento a tu lado –
pasando mi mano por tu frente
te alcanzo los lentes
te tapo con una frazada
te lo contesto el teléfono.

No diré algo que no me convence;
mejor no tratar de explicar lo que duele.

Aprieto tu mano.
Te preparo una taza de café y
me siento a tu lado –
así logro
decir
lo que no puedo.

Lessons at the beach

I didn’t know
the little bubbles and holes in the sand that
appeared as the waves pulled back
were tiny clams retreating deeper and
taking breaths.
I didn’t know that
the purple-edged seashells found
sprinkled across the sand
were once used as currency.
“Wampum,” he said.
And when the seagulls were all standing on the beach,
facing the same direction,
alert, as if receiving a message,
he told me
they were facing the wind so it wouldn’t
mess up their feathers,
and they were just
waiting for food to fall to the ground.

Gentle

She called out twice, no answer and
suddenly annoyed at the lack of consideration
wondered what
the gardener was up to as she
stomped over to the window,
which framed a sight
seen every year around this time...

the top of his silver streaked head
below her on the back step,
his tired back bent over
pots of purple pansies
delicate pink violets
and hearty geraniums
whispering, encouraging
them to grow lasting and lovely
so she'd not complain.

His little friends glanced up, seeing her
and perked up
for him.

Langston Hughes in the 4th Grade

My students have experienced several different types of poetic forms since September. I use specific poems and certain poem forms (haiku, list poems, auto-biographical) to encourage English language development with my ELLs. Since the beginning of the year, my students have made enormous gains in English proficiency. Even more remarkable, is that they have emerged as thoughtful writers and thinkers.

Yesterday I kicked off National Poetry Month with "Poem" by Langston Hughes. It's one of the most touching and simple poems I know.

Poem

"I loved my friend.
He went away from me.
There's nothing more to say.
The poem ends,
soft as it began-
I loved my friend."

The students discussed the poem in groups; they touched on how "short and simple" the poem was, and how sad, "even though the poet didn't even say sad!" I then asked them to write a five-paragraph essay about a time when they lost someone or something they loved. They got right to it, first planning, then writing their first drafts. I did not have to coax anyone to write. Writing flowed freely, even from the three children who are often reluctant writers.

I was able to conference with half of the class yesterday, and the rest today. I was floored by the quality writing they had produced! My students wrote about lost friends, lost relatives left back home in their countries, lost pets, and a lost necklace. While they read to me, some of them got a bit choked up, and some managed to provoke a tear or two in my eyes. (Of course, I had to look away, or pretend like I was distracted by something on the other side of the room!)

Several students started to publish their work today. The rest will do so tomorrow, I'm sure. And today we read another poem, Life Doesn't Frighten Me, by Maya Angelou. They loved it and want to write their own poems about their fears.

These days... are magic. There's nothing more to say.

En el medio

The middle sister – a small fairy-like woman
her body is wrapped in the arms and legs of her youngest
who twirls his fingers in her short, black hair
finds comfort in her soft neck
whimpers in pain, wanting

the sister in the middle – a strong, athletic woman
her heart is weakened by the growth spurts of her daughter
who rolls her preteen eyes, pulling at her, and pulling away
tests her mother with words and attitude
shrugs off a reprimand from

the middle sister – a determined, concerned woman
her thoughts are consumed by her own middle child
who flips pages in fishing magazines
squints at big words, trying to please
asks for help at homework time from

the middle child,
who used to make her mother cry and her father’s blood boil
sought attention,
rebelled, then returned as

the middle one – discovered by a man
for the treasure she is

a centered woman now –
pulled in many directions
but her hands reach, touch, fix, and heal
effortlessly
love completely.
She is a warming-core,
the center of family.

Si pudiera hablar

Me duele la lengua de tanto morderla
la tengo roja y quemante
nadie ve lo gruesa que se me ha hecho
cómo la paro antes que me perjudique.

Las palabras
honestas
quedan
guardadas,
calladas.
Optando por ser gente
no dejo que sepas lo
poco que pienso de tí.

Ves mis labios, mis dientes
pero no creas que te estimo.
Yo también sé jugar ese juego.


My tongue hurts from so much biting
red and burning
no one sees how thick it has become
how I stop it before it gets me in trouble.

Honest words,
remain hidden,
silenced.
Choosing to be polite
I don’t let on
how little I think of you.

You see my lips, my teeth
but don’t think I respect you.
I know how to play that game.

Sunday Evening Sadness

A trabajar mañana, m’ijito
y tu a la escuela.
A levantarse temprano
ducharse a la rápida
vestirse calentito y
desayunar, aunque no tengas ganas.

Fueron lindos y largos estos días
pasamos horas haciendo nada
gozamos mucho
disfrutamos nuestra casita,
las sopas ricas que hizo tu padre,
y las delicias de dormir hasta tarde.

Mañana, regresamos a la rutina.
No tengas pena, m’ijo,
sentirás esta melancolía el resto de la vida.
Los lunes cuestan.

**********************************************
Back to work tomorrow, my son
and you to school.
Wake up early
shower quickly
dress warmly
have breakfast, though you don't feel like it.

These days were lovely and long
we spent hours doing nothing
we had fun
we enjoyed our little home
the savory soups your dad made
and the delights of sleeping in.

Tomorrow, we'll return to the routine.
Don't let it bother you my boy,
you'll feel this sadness the rest of your life.
Mondays are difficult.

A Boy Finds Algebra

I've reached you kid!
you've been all over the place
your paragraphs long, breathless strings of disconnected
your homework wrinkled, empty pages of incomplete
your desk a black hole from which books and pencils never return
but I knew
one of my tricks would work
eventually
so today I wrote
W+S=25, and S-W=19
asked the class to solve for W and S
your eyes became large
your smile widened
the unknowns interested you
I watched you attack paper
scratching with a mission
until discovery lit up your face.

How to Remove a Splinter

My splinter-removing implements are arranged in a row
tweezers, cotton-balls, alcohol, safety pins, Neosporin
you’ve managed to get a huge one stuck up in your heel
and you trust me to remove it
This is love
Please lay face down, hon, diagonal on the bed
so I can work on you here by the light
poor foot
calloused skin
I’ll have to rough you up a bit
but I promise it’ll come out
just hold on, scream in to the pillow if you need to

Several attempts, scraping, piercing, poking, tearing
pulling at an almost microscopic shard
gripping your heel to steady it
I’m hurting you as I’ve done so many times
and you are not angry at me
You wince, your eyes water,
your mouth remains closed

I once thought I’d enjoy making you suffer
(just a little bit)
but now, I want this small evil to be gone.
I feel it when you cringe.
The small wooden needle slides away finally –
no trace left behind.
I’ve fixed you.

A Super Hero contemplates 40

Her cape is ripped,
snagged on splinters, shredded by glass,
no longer flowing behind her in the wind,
faded from years of flying.
The shine rubbed off a long while ago.
Her sleek unitard has seen better days,
worn in several spots,
threadbare where she least needs it to be.
She doesn’t look quite the same in it,
but it’s black,
disguising flaws
and years of bad eating habits.
The thigh-high boots will have to go soon
though she doesn’t know how low-heeled clogs will go with this look.
Her feet just aren’t the same.

Her vision is failing.
She can’t see through walls as she used to.
They stop her cold, she gives in too easily.
Her steely grip is weakening from arthritis,
easily dropping things she’s been trying to hold on to.

Had Marvel or DC known her,
she would have remained beautiful, strong, powerful, young –
a force to fear.
In the mirror though, she is drained –
fine-lines earned from real work, long hours,
and endless worries.
She sighs, shrugs, downs her morning elixir,
brewed hot and strong,
and heads out, pulling at her tights,
fluffing out her long-flowing black hair,
(she still has that going)
and calls on her will to
get through another day.

So tired, I can't sleep

Nine o’clock, exhausted, ready for bed
so cold, extra blankets
alarm set, good night.
My eyes opened at 11, I remembered the laundry.
I woke again at 12, counted to 239, thought about work.
I saw the clock at 1:34, wondered if it had to do with age?
Flipped the pillow to the cool side,
threw my arm around my husband at 1:55,
and mulled over an argument.
Counted to three hundred something
and saw green glowing at 2:46,
considered where to stop for gas in the morning.
Unwrapped myself from too-warm covers at 3:50,
tugged at the comforter again around 4:44,
mentally rearranged the next day’s class schedule.
Sirens! Screaming! Beeping!
Fumbled for the button at 5:30,
hit snooze, not so gently, for just 10 more precious minutes.

An afternoon swim

Rainy day weekends command naps
and she is more than willing to oblige
once the clock shows 2 or 3
or after lunch, when her insides are full and warm.
She bids farewell to the others, and calls up to her bed
“I’m on my way!”
gathering up her book as she climbs to her room,
her quiet heaven.
She slips off her daily clothes, folds them neatly and places them
on a nearby chair, for later,
then reaches under her pillow for the softest nightshirt,
stretching her arms as the comforting worn cotton falls around her shoulders.
Pulling the covers away, she wants to jump in,
but won’t disturb the cat, already blissfully asleep.
Carefully, precisely, she climbs in, and lays down,
opening her book to the part where the boy and his horse
ride into the ocean and swim with the dolphins.
While she reads
her feet rub against each other rhythmically
remnants of a child’s self-soothing habit
and after two or three pages
her eyes begin to grow heavy
and the rain calls her to sleep
the book falls away,
and the breeze lifts the curtains.
The rains sing and soothe
as she swims away.