Johnny
I have spent my life forgetting him
leaving him
a fading childhood memory
a shadow of comfort captured in a warm towel
tucked, gently under my arms
My footed pajamas padded after him
a cold, tiled floor
a window fogged with condensation,
toddler indignation
Pre-adolescence called him
turning his back to me
Wishing cannot create memories
cannot recreate what three years could not hold
or more than infancy will surrender
Somewhere I am a sister trying to hold a brother
who hardly heard her speak
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
What I've Got
When what I've got just isn't good enough
My voice, dry, just not strong enough.
My lessons felt but not for long enough.
I rewrite, rethink, review and revisit.
I retype, step back, read and take a minute.
I count to ten, breathe deep, dive in and begin again.
When what I've got just isn't good enough.
My voice, hoarse, maybe just not loud enough.
My lessons, heard, but not felt deeply enough.
I stop. I step back. I retrace my step. I sit down.
I ponder. I wonder. I regress.
I sleep on it. I begin fresh.
When what I've got still just isn't good enough.
My voice, tired, just not energetic enough.
My lessons, given just not applied enough.
I rewind, reflect and remember they are eight,
and with some weight they may remember my name
as the one who supported, lifted and taught them
without naming their shame,
without placing blame.
When what I've got just isn't good enough
My voice a whisper,
My lessons eraser lint...
I realize it is not all about what I'VE got.
My voice, dry, just not strong enough.
My lessons felt but not for long enough.
I rewrite, rethink, review and revisit.
I retype, step back, read and take a minute.
I count to ten, breathe deep, dive in and begin again.
When what I've got just isn't good enough.
My voice, hoarse, maybe just not loud enough.
My lessons, heard, but not felt deeply enough.
I stop. I step back. I retrace my step. I sit down.
I ponder. I wonder. I regress.
I sleep on it. I begin fresh.
When what I've got still just isn't good enough.
My voice, tired, just not energetic enough.
My lessons, given just not applied enough.
I rewind, reflect and remember they are eight,
and with some weight they may remember my name
as the one who supported, lifted and taught them
without naming their shame,
without placing blame.
When what I've got just isn't good enough
My voice a whisper,
My lessons eraser lint...
I realize it is not all about what I'VE got.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
My America
Found this essay I wrote five or six years ago. Still true.
My America
When the bell rings on the first day of school, the teachers at the suburban Chicago school where I teach will hold open their doors to welcome a myriad of new students. In that simple act we can so easily forget the magnitude of our presences in that open doorway and what we represent; in that moment of missing summer and starting anew we may overlook how strong the need is for us to stand tall and smile brightly to warm that welcome because we are no longer just door holders, pencil sharpeners or facilitators, we are symbols of America itself. We are the very Statue of Liberty with arms overhead, holding not torches but signs with our names and room numbers. We are a beacon, nonetheless, a promise of the “American Dream” because so many in this immigrant community begin their journey here with us.
We watch, strangers to them as they arrive often with parents in tow, searching the signs overhead for the name and number to match their registration papers. We watch them, then, search our faces for kindness, for answers to this new land. The encouragement is spoken in so many dialects around us, a sea of well-wishes and pats on the head; a hundred tiny whispers into anxious ears. Their families, so trusting, leave their children and their lives in our lines and step back.
Each subsequent morning before school begins, the students congregate on the blacktop. It is here as an observer you can see my America clearly. You can see what it means to be united in these United States. There are many languages to be heard and many forms of communications despite language. One could truly learn something about what it is to be an American in the suburban Chicago area and an immigrant. Life is less about being born here than it is about being reborn here, about making this country home.
I am busy in my room, writing, cutting, pasting activities, games and lessons for this diverse population. In the same day I will teach the phonics o the English alphabet to one group and a chapter book with inferential comprehension to another. I must teach them from where they are. I must also provide for their most basic needs. It is the understanding of this hierarchy that has breakfast waiting in a cooler in each classroom. Calendar time is now shared with breakfast.
I’ve learned so much here about what it is to sacrifice. Many families leave everything behind to give their children the American Dream and to many that simply means safety and opportunity. I have met children who have left an entire world and family only days earlier and traveled with little more than hope in hand to our doorstep, it is only with this view of their anxious but happy faces you could know optimism the way I do.
I hold that ideal sacred now as a kind of promise to this new generation of Americans and take on the responsibility of welcoming them, of being that integral first impression taking on my position as that Lady Liberty in this blacktop harbor, standing tall and waving in all how pass. It is just this sacrifice that often sends us teachers shopping for treats, or clothes or extra school supplies. We know too well the confusion and face of pain when holidays and birthdays go by with too little money for celebration. There are clandestine envelopes passed and gifts are mysteriously delivered to families in need.
Any visitor can quickly understand why we are so lucky to live in America and why so many have chosen it as their dream destination, no matter how far they’ve had to travel. The can see a true Unite Nations with refugees who have fled wars in Bosnia and Yugoslavia; dreamers who have journeyed from Mexico or job seekers who have just flown in from Poland, India or Syria; they would know we are already living the better life.
There are no glamorous tours or action adventures for our visitors, but there is a certain level of peace and potential I have not found anywhere else in my lifetime. The playground you look out onto was once mine and many of my former teachers still stand challenged beside me, dedicated more to this ever-changing population than to a paycheck. We are challenged to leave no one behind no matter their language or economic status, yet secure in the knowledge that we will live forever in the memory of that refugee as a refuge ourselves.
The No Child Left Behind Act has judged our work harshly and left us on the defense. No government body or single signature can undo what I know I have done. No mandate can tell me at what grade any one person must be and when. No one can alleviate the struggle or diminish the sacrifice for these children’s dreams. It is a paper that dares to judge this flock on their reading level alone. No government body could stand on this crowded blacktop and not see growth from August to June.
As I stand watching them run to the open doors, I see that only the languages here have changed, not the struggles, not the dreams and certainly not the hope. NCLB or not, I know that.
As teachers in this immigrant community we welcome them, our wave and smile a beacon; our open doors, a safe harbor and a hope in education for a better life. We become educators of culture; educators of a life well lived and dreams realized; educators to parents through their own children about how to communicate and navigate in this new land. We teach them so much more than a textbook suggests and each in their own way, in their own time.
No child left behind.
My America
When the bell rings on the first day of school, the teachers at the suburban Chicago school where I teach will hold open their doors to welcome a myriad of new students. In that simple act we can so easily forget the magnitude of our presences in that open doorway and what we represent; in that moment of missing summer and starting anew we may overlook how strong the need is for us to stand tall and smile brightly to warm that welcome because we are no longer just door holders, pencil sharpeners or facilitators, we are symbols of America itself. We are the very Statue of Liberty with arms overhead, holding not torches but signs with our names and room numbers. We are a beacon, nonetheless, a promise of the “American Dream” because so many in this immigrant community begin their journey here with us.
We watch, strangers to them as they arrive often with parents in tow, searching the signs overhead for the name and number to match their registration papers. We watch them, then, search our faces for kindness, for answers to this new land. The encouragement is spoken in so many dialects around us, a sea of well-wishes and pats on the head; a hundred tiny whispers into anxious ears. Their families, so trusting, leave their children and their lives in our lines and step back.
Each subsequent morning before school begins, the students congregate on the blacktop. It is here as an observer you can see my America clearly. You can see what it means to be united in these United States. There are many languages to be heard and many forms of communications despite language. One could truly learn something about what it is to be an American in the suburban Chicago area and an immigrant. Life is less about being born here than it is about being reborn here, about making this country home.
I am busy in my room, writing, cutting, pasting activities, games and lessons for this diverse population. In the same day I will teach the phonics o the English alphabet to one group and a chapter book with inferential comprehension to another. I must teach them from where they are. I must also provide for their most basic needs. It is the understanding of this hierarchy that has breakfast waiting in a cooler in each classroom. Calendar time is now shared with breakfast.
I’ve learned so much here about what it is to sacrifice. Many families leave everything behind to give their children the American Dream and to many that simply means safety and opportunity. I have met children who have left an entire world and family only days earlier and traveled with little more than hope in hand to our doorstep, it is only with this view of their anxious but happy faces you could know optimism the way I do.
I hold that ideal sacred now as a kind of promise to this new generation of Americans and take on the responsibility of welcoming them, of being that integral first impression taking on my position as that Lady Liberty in this blacktop harbor, standing tall and waving in all how pass. It is just this sacrifice that often sends us teachers shopping for treats, or clothes or extra school supplies. We know too well the confusion and face of pain when holidays and birthdays go by with too little money for celebration. There are clandestine envelopes passed and gifts are mysteriously delivered to families in need.
Any visitor can quickly understand why we are so lucky to live in America and why so many have chosen it as their dream destination, no matter how far they’ve had to travel. The can see a true Unite Nations with refugees who have fled wars in Bosnia and Yugoslavia; dreamers who have journeyed from Mexico or job seekers who have just flown in from Poland, India or Syria; they would know we are already living the better life.
There are no glamorous tours or action adventures for our visitors, but there is a certain level of peace and potential I have not found anywhere else in my lifetime. The playground you look out onto was once mine and many of my former teachers still stand challenged beside me, dedicated more to this ever-changing population than to a paycheck. We are challenged to leave no one behind no matter their language or economic status, yet secure in the knowledge that we will live forever in the memory of that refugee as a refuge ourselves.
The No Child Left Behind Act has judged our work harshly and left us on the defense. No government body or single signature can undo what I know I have done. No mandate can tell me at what grade any one person must be and when. No one can alleviate the struggle or diminish the sacrifice for these children’s dreams. It is a paper that dares to judge this flock on their reading level alone. No government body could stand on this crowded blacktop and not see growth from August to June.
As I stand watching them run to the open doors, I see that only the languages here have changed, not the struggles, not the dreams and certainly not the hope. NCLB or not, I know that.
As teachers in this immigrant community we welcome them, our wave and smile a beacon; our open doors, a safe harbor and a hope in education for a better life. We become educators of culture; educators of a life well lived and dreams realized; educators to parents through their own children about how to communicate and navigate in this new land. We teach them so much more than a textbook suggests and each in their own way, in their own time.
No child left behind.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Uncrafted Curriculum
You teach them things
that are
not carefully crafted
or written or typed
Taking from you more things accidentally
or incidentally than you realize
Powerful lessons unresearched,
without objectives in your plans,
perhaps even without a second thought in your conscious
You teach them your values by spending more or less time
on one topic or the next,
by raising your voice to one, or all, or a few
You teach them who is worthy or not with your sighs
and the rolling of your eyes
You teach them if they should try
by the way you push them or
by the way you don’t ask twice
You teach them they can
or they can never,
by your voice, by your choice
of volunteers, of those deemed better
You teach them if they are good enough
with your whispered correction or sarcasm.
You teach them all how to treat one another
by the way you treat them all
They need you to like them
and they will let you teach them…
or not
that are
not carefully crafted
or written or typed
Taking from you more things accidentally
or incidentally than you realize
Powerful lessons unresearched,
without objectives in your plans,
perhaps even without a second thought in your conscious
You teach them your values by spending more or less time
on one topic or the next,
by raising your voice to one, or all, or a few
You teach them who is worthy or not with your sighs
and the rolling of your eyes
You teach them if they should try
by the way you push them or
by the way you don’t ask twice
You teach them they can
or they can never,
by your voice, by your choice
of volunteers, of those deemed better
You teach them if they are good enough
with your whispered correction or sarcasm.
You teach them all how to treat one another
by the way you treat them all
They need you to like them
and they will let you teach them…
or not
A girl I met
I met a girl who is unwanted.
She doesn't really know it or maybe doesn't understand it but she will, someday. I would love to put her in my bag and carry her home, she just might fit. I know someone would miss her, BUT not really miss who she is. She acts out sometimes for attention, no matter how bad because somewhere she is beginning to know what it is she's missing and what she's left without. I watch a hole forming in her chest, of want, of anger and of neglect. I wish she didn't feel so empty so I try to fill her with laughs and high fives but sometimes she cannot even take these, no where to put positives in such a negatively charged life so she tests me, dares me to leave her and let her down. I hold her hand. I watch her skip. I pull her along. See her go too far and hope she turns back. She always does. I remind my heart she is not mine. I prepare myself for her absence. I try to prepare her for her future, her life, where she is in charge so she does not repeat this life, bequeath this misery to a daughter all her own as so often happens with girls I meet.
She doesn't really know it or maybe doesn't understand it but she will, someday. I would love to put her in my bag and carry her home, she just might fit. I know someone would miss her, BUT not really miss who she is. She acts out sometimes for attention, no matter how bad because somewhere she is beginning to know what it is she's missing and what she's left without. I watch a hole forming in her chest, of want, of anger and of neglect. I wish she didn't feel so empty so I try to fill her with laughs and high fives but sometimes she cannot even take these, no where to put positives in such a negatively charged life so she tests me, dares me to leave her and let her down. I hold her hand. I watch her skip. I pull her along. See her go too far and hope she turns back. She always does. I remind my heart she is not mine. I prepare myself for her absence. I try to prepare her for her future, her life, where she is in charge so she does not repeat this life, bequeath this misery to a daughter all her own as so often happens with girls I meet.
First Born
Life cherished, adored
Genuflection at his birth
A childhood so carefully recorded
So gently stored
Caught on film
Trimmed, snipped and arranged
head cradled
back scratched, massaged
ego caressed
every want addressed
life blessed
Adolescence surprised
Parents settled, realized
Praise and prayer
Were misdirected
Misunderstood
Misaligned
Albums revisited
Time rearranged
Words trimmed, snipped and arranged
His life lifted
Our heads scratched
His ego raging
His wants readdressed
Our lives a mess
Adulthood came quickly
Parents tired, distressed
Embracing needed rest
Praising, pondering
Lives untouched
Albums revisited
Time held still
Love trimmed, snipped and arranged
His life starting
Our heads held high
His ego standing
His wants addressed
Our lives blessed
Genuflection at his birth
A childhood so carefully recorded
So gently stored
Caught on film
Trimmed, snipped and arranged
head cradled
back scratched, massaged
ego caressed
every want addressed
life blessed
Adolescence surprised
Parents settled, realized
Praise and prayer
Were misdirected
Misunderstood
Misaligned
Albums revisited
Time rearranged
Words trimmed, snipped and arranged
His life lifted
Our heads scratched
His ego raging
His wants readdressed
Our lives a mess
Adulthood came quickly
Parents tired, distressed
Embracing needed rest
Praising, pondering
Lives untouched
Albums revisited
Time held still
Love trimmed, snipped and arranged
His life starting
Our heads held high
His ego standing
His wants addressed
Our lives blessed
Elementary Lamaze
Everything tied and zipped
A sigh escapes me
Indecision slips
I can’t call him today
Can’t make sure everything is okay
Sure he could tough it out
Everything could be right
So I overstuff his pockets
With fresh Kleenex
I try to encourage safety and
Stress common sense
Without preaching
Or making the world dangerous
It is a time of catching my breath
Holding my tongue
Trying to reassure he and I
Even if a cough and cold
Are his greatest distress
An elementary Lamaze of slow sighs
And held breaths
School, I puff, School, I puff
Breathe through it
The walk goes by too quickly
His grip loosens in my hand
Quick short breaths as he runs
Toward some friends
Quick short breaths meant to ease my
Heart’s distress
Little cupped hand wave
There he goes, a blue dot in the crowd
Deep cleansing breath
He is there
He is there
My fingers find their way to my pockets
Lost already in the emptiness
The idleness
The quiet
Breathe, Just Breathe
It is only 8:00 A.M.
A sigh escapes me
Indecision slips
I can’t call him today
Can’t make sure everything is okay
Sure he could tough it out
Everything could be right
So I overstuff his pockets
With fresh Kleenex
I try to encourage safety and
Stress common sense
Without preaching
Or making the world dangerous
It is a time of catching my breath
Holding my tongue
Trying to reassure he and I
Even if a cough and cold
Are his greatest distress
An elementary Lamaze of slow sighs
And held breaths
School, I puff, School, I puff
Breathe through it
The walk goes by too quickly
His grip loosens in my hand
Quick short breaths as he runs
Toward some friends
Quick short breaths meant to ease my
Heart’s distress
Little cupped hand wave
There he goes, a blue dot in the crowd
Deep cleansing breath
He is there
He is there
My fingers find their way to my pockets
Lost already in the emptiness
The idleness
The quiet
Breathe, Just Breathe
It is only 8:00 A.M.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
My Bosnia
The first parent-teacher conference day is always exhausting and busy. The day begins with Thanksgiving themed lessons then the students are dismissed at lunch. The remainder of the afternoon and evening are filled with meetings with twenty-three families, eight of these are with interpreters for Spanish, Polish, Bulgarian and Bosnian.
Logging onto my computer to do a quick chart for an upcoming math lesson, my Bosnian interpreter entered with a smile and charisma that has not changed since he was in my fourth grade classroom years ago.
"Do you remember me?" he smirked, opening his arms to embrace me.
I held back tears and assured him I did remember. As we waited for the next scheduled conference on tiny yellow chairs we spoke of his arrival in America and how much we both remembered.
He spoke of his college classes---college!---and his classes in elementary education. He wanted to teach someday. As he spoke of his life, looking so grown up and confident I recalled what his hopes had once been and how he had changed my life as well. I told him about a poem I had written about those early days:
My Bosnia
He walked to my desk and handed me a treasure
The enormity of the gift is something
I cannot precisely measure
A white poster board rolled up so tight
Held together by many rubber bands
Did not at first reveal its amazing insight
A project was given to him just yesterday
To help us to get to know him better and understand
A kind of translation
Where language itself could not comprehend
Something to tell us what he'd seen
He was from Bosnia
Just arrived in America
Labeled a refugee
And a no speakee
I had said to use the globes and maps
The computer, the atlas,
Markers, pens and pencils
This poster board and your imagination
Tell us about yourself
Like, how was your trip?
Do you have any brothers and sisters?
What about pets?
He had only smiled, understanding little, I was sure, of what I rambled
I was certain the task would take several days or a week
But Tuesday morning he arrived having it complete
He carefully unwound each rubber band
And laid flat his treasure
Stretching it wide between his hands
Across his now proud, inflated chest
With a smile darting across his face
Revealing many large white teeth
Creating a picture of pride in me, ten years has not erased
The paper itself was puzzling
The joy not understood
Covered with black and orange and brown strokes
In a design that was not full of joy
No landscape, no maps nor photos of his folks
Instead some kind of hatred and darkness
And clips of fear itself
He said he had drawn his Bosnia
He began in a voice that was larger than his nine years
A wisdom that stretched back to that farm
To his sheep, his dogs, his house, his life
A place we would never see
And neither, again, would he
He spoke perfectly and told us
How he had worn enough clothes to last a lifetime
And walked for so long he'd worn out his shoes
He had ventured with his parents and a line of townspeople
Out of their burned homes in the middle of the night
To find a trail they'd heard of in the light
A route that would end in safety
Would begin again their lives
A promise of ...America
"How many people went?" a girl shouted
"So many I could not see where the line would ever end," he replied shuffling his feet
They boarded a small plane and ate bread and drank water
This line of people escaping a life that was destroyed by war
He said they did not talk, too tired from the walk
His feet bled
And he wept silently for his pets, his friends, his life
For his Bosnia
When he is grown
He wants to return
To build the farm again
Or maybe, just, to see
If anything he knew was left
He stopped and we were filled
With more than where it is he came from
And how it is he chose us
We were filled with what it means to be Americans
What it is to have too much
We were blessed to have a treasure before us sharing a story made
So simply with three colors on a white poster board
He said he did not remember his first year that way. He remembered only the two boys from Bosnia and later a girl whom he helped; all so eager to learn the English and know what it was we were all talking about. He recalled they took a lot of pictures of me and our school. I remembered the many flashes from their cameras as they created new lives as Americans.
He did not speak of returning to Bosnia and I could not ask, so happy for him and his plans for his life, grateful for the visit and the memories.
Logging onto my computer to do a quick chart for an upcoming math lesson, my Bosnian interpreter entered with a smile and charisma that has not changed since he was in my fourth grade classroom years ago.
"Do you remember me?" he smirked, opening his arms to embrace me.
I held back tears and assured him I did remember. As we waited for the next scheduled conference on tiny yellow chairs we spoke of his arrival in America and how much we both remembered.
He spoke of his college classes---college!---and his classes in elementary education. He wanted to teach someday. As he spoke of his life, looking so grown up and confident I recalled what his hopes had once been and how he had changed my life as well. I told him about a poem I had written about those early days:
My Bosnia
He walked to my desk and handed me a treasure
The enormity of the gift is something
I cannot precisely measure
A white poster board rolled up so tight
Held together by many rubber bands
Did not at first reveal its amazing insight
A project was given to him just yesterday
To help us to get to know him better and understand
A kind of translation
Where language itself could not comprehend
Something to tell us what he'd seen
He was from Bosnia
Just arrived in America
Labeled a refugee
And a no speakee
I had said to use the globes and maps
The computer, the atlas,
Markers, pens and pencils
This poster board and your imagination
Tell us about yourself
Like, how was your trip?
Do you have any brothers and sisters?
What about pets?
He had only smiled, understanding little, I was sure, of what I rambled
I was certain the task would take several days or a week
But Tuesday morning he arrived having it complete
He carefully unwound each rubber band
And laid flat his treasure
Stretching it wide between his hands
Across his now proud, inflated chest
With a smile darting across his face
Revealing many large white teeth
Creating a picture of pride in me, ten years has not erased
The paper itself was puzzling
The joy not understood
Covered with black and orange and brown strokes
In a design that was not full of joy
No landscape, no maps nor photos of his folks
Instead some kind of hatred and darkness
And clips of fear itself
He said he had drawn his Bosnia
He began in a voice that was larger than his nine years
A wisdom that stretched back to that farm
To his sheep, his dogs, his house, his life
A place we would never see
And neither, again, would he
He spoke perfectly and told us
How he had worn enough clothes to last a lifetime
And walked for so long he'd worn out his shoes
He had ventured with his parents and a line of townspeople
Out of their burned homes in the middle of the night
To find a trail they'd heard of in the light
A route that would end in safety
Would begin again their lives
A promise of ...America
"How many people went?" a girl shouted
"So many I could not see where the line would ever end," he replied shuffling his feet
They boarded a small plane and ate bread and drank water
This line of people escaping a life that was destroyed by war
He said they did not talk, too tired from the walk
His feet bled
And he wept silently for his pets, his friends, his life
For his Bosnia
When he is grown
He wants to return
To build the farm again
Or maybe, just, to see
If anything he knew was left
He stopped and we were filled
With more than where it is he came from
And how it is he chose us
We were filled with what it means to be Americans
What it is to have too much
We were blessed to have a treasure before us sharing a story made
So simply with three colors on a white poster board
He said he did not remember his first year that way. He remembered only the two boys from Bosnia and later a girl whom he helped; all so eager to learn the English and know what it was we were all talking about. He recalled they took a lot of pictures of me and our school. I remembered the many flashes from their cameras as they created new lives as Americans.
He did not speak of returning to Bosnia and I could not ask, so happy for him and his plans for his life, grateful for the visit and the memories.
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