Facing fears

I was in middle school when VHS video cameras became a big deal. My brother, five years older, was enthralled with the technology. The red record light was blinking a lot there for a while. My younger sister--still in elementary--was a real ham. She'd sing every lyric to the Mickey and Minnie soundtrack for the camera without a thought. I, however, was humiliated. When my siblings were staging scenes for their next big independent film, I was giving the metaphorical finger to the paparazzi. 

"Basta!" I'd think, rolling my eyes, as I retreated to my room out of sight. 

Now, I'm putting together a portfolio for National Board Teacher Certification, and the famous video component is on my to-do list. I wouldn't describe myself as shy over the last twenty years of my career. I love leading a class through lessons with or without the spotlight shining on me. Is it worth mentioning that since those family video days, musical theater was my niche? Shuffling off to Buffalo, I only needed a sec to grab my tap shoes. But the idea of capturing my class on tape, though, activated the familiar jitters of my pre-adolescent days.

Today, I did it. I planned a lesson--as teachers do--and then I taught it--also pretty standard. The good news is that the camera was on to catch it all. Did I panic? Shake in my boots? Break out in a cold sweat? Not a bit! And the relief of discovering that I have more than 15 minutes of footage to analyze? So sweet.

One video down. One more to go. 

Blue Skies Shining

When the phone rang, I was feeling pretty blue, but I rallied when I heard the familiar voice of an Optimist Club member. We talk this time every year--he sponsors a speech contest for our area's youth.

This year's prompt: “Discovering the Optimism within Me”

It can be challenging to convince adolescents to see the world through a positive lens. Some might argue it's a sign of the times--the world has turned to shit because of climate change, increased violence, hate crimes, and the headlines that shock us into submission on the daily. Thirty years ago, though, if someone asked me about optimsim within me--depending on their age--I'm just not sure what I would do either. 

On Friday, a colleague asked me to cover her afternoon class. Only one was a former student, and the rest were my present and future kids. She proudly told her classmates that her best writing of all time was her speech. I'll never forget her journey. She filled about six pages with a personal experience she was still processing. Several writing sessions later with a few friends cheering her on, she threaded the needle, stitched scenes together, and tied an unbreakable knot at the end. The day she stood at the podium, her peers praised her bravery. She didn't win the contest, but it didn't seem to matter.

So I'm going in, folks. This week, I'll invite students to look on the bright side. I have a feeling it will go really well. 

Who am I in the kitchen?

I'm not known for my cooking. In fact, grocery stores haven't counted me as an active member since March of 2020. But a good friend recently reminded me of my reference to the "Rise of the Kitchen Bitch" piece by Hanna Rosin more than a decade ago. (Note: The internet has been scrubbed of this piece, so don't bother searching for it.)

Then was a period of empowerment--the wooden spoon was my paintbrush, and the dinner hour was my canvas. I recall a binder of printed recipes and hand-written shopping lists that I made in response. Bon Appetit pages with notes scribbled in the margins still occupy my bookshelf in the yearbook and photo album section collecting dust.

My son and I made fried rice on Wednesday night. Almost every ingredient came from the vegetable drawer except for the aspirational tofu I purchased on a whim. I'm grateful for the wok that's hot enough to make every sauce sizzle. The power move came from the 12-year-old who plated the dish with a sunny-side-up egg atop each soy-infused dome, monuments to our culinary efforts. We sank our forks into a satisfying feast of our combined creation. 

I'm not known for my cooking, but I can cook. 

Better than a "Get Well" Card

Once I finally succumbed to the winter creep that was settling meanly in my chest, I sank to the depths of my bed and didn't come up for air for two and a half days. That bastard took my voice, which turned out to be very effective in stopping me in my tracks. Teachers need to talk...or so I thought.

I'd never seen such kindness in the eyes of my sixteen-year-old students until I gave them writing advice with a laryngitic (not an actual adjective, but it should be) whisper on Monday morning. If only I came prepared with all my wishes for the school year, I might have performed miracles. In a short time, I achieved wordless compliance with simple requests. The subtlest of gestures gained their rapt attention. A pin dropped, and it made the sweetest sound. But I admitted defeat by lunch. Mask or no mask, school was not the place for me.  

Now that I'm back and speaking words out loud, I wonder about that mythical morning: the day that students knew what to do without even being told. 

Sshhhh, it's Saturday

I thought I'd sleep in, but this morning's sun shining in my window expressed more ambition. I jumped at the invitation and made my to-do list over coffee. Sure, my hair was tied in the same knot from the night before, and I was still relishing my PJs, but my posture said, "Yes" to what lay ahead. I had places to go and boxes to check. 

Have you wanted to run in a dream but found your legs useless? Wanted to push without hands? Fly without wings? 

When the first of my family emerged today, I was happy to greet them in the kitchen. But when I did, all that came out was air--just a whisper. And okay, maybe I felt a little tired, too. I let my spine relax and my eyelids close.

Rendered speechless for a day, I modified my list. Took it easier than initially intended. Squeezed a bit more lemon into my tea. And most importantly, I didn't talk much at all.

I thought, maybe I'm not up to writing today. How cool is it, though, that I can tell a little story without even opening my mouth to speak? 

Hello, Friday

There's a low round vase on my table with some purple carnations with yellow circles at their centers. The rain is drop, drop, dropping off the roof on this cold, rainy Friday. I've already finished my tea. My glasses–reserved for driving–sit beside me as a tap, tap, tap on my keyboard. 

It has been the kind of week that feels like three. Maybe it was because I stayed home sick on Wednesday with a headache that wore me out so much that I slept for the duration of a workday. Before and after, I have been grading essays, writing comments that start with "Consider..." or "Aim to..." but also "Fix..." and "Try again." I'm simultaneously introducing a dystopian unit. My voice today is hoarse from the spirit I brought to my book talks. They were presenting their pre-unit thought experiments about how their utopias could flip to a dystopia with corruption, AI monsters, happy pill addiction, and the usual stuff. During their presentations, I'd ring a bell. Ding, Ding! to announce my connection to their reading options for the next few weeks. 

I see you're curious about government surveillance. You're clearly concerned by the propaganda flowing freely through your feed. Maybe a gruesome torture scene will scare it out of you. Here's a copy of 1984!

How about teenagers suffering through side-effects of genetic "lifting"? AI companions to make up for your lack of human interaction? You'll love Klara and the Sun!

Hate reading? Love your screen? Uninterested in complicated thoughts and fascinated by fire? Fahrenheit 451 is for you!

You're right, post-apocalyptic gang warfare is the pits. Drought and hunger? Dismembered bodies within the exposition? Try Parable of the Sower!

At the end of the day, a group of kids came in. I had taught them first thing in the morning, but they were all feeling the Friday vibes. They were making their way down the hall to say bye to their teachers, and they stopped in to look at my wall display, make some jokes, and say, "Have a great weekend!"

My kitchen table is clean. The dog is slurping up the water in her bowl, and the sun has gone down. My glasses are going back on, I'm headed to writing group. And life is good.

Coffee or Tea

Mornings are for strong coffee. It is as much a bitter jolt as it is a ritual before every school day. I’ve tried the handy self-timed brew, but my efforts to the carafe, measuring out the grounds, plus the triangulated steps I take from the counter to the sink to the fridge create its own zen. Sometimes I carry my cup all morning, taking mouthfuls until it comes up empty. Then there are days when its existence is sufficient—when conversations compete for my attention and win, but my coffee is both player and fan in the stands. We exchange knowing looks because I’m so glad she's there.

Afternoons are for herbal tea. Walking down the hall of my classroom, I fill a carafe from the fountain and listen for the steamy boil before brewing a soothing lemon ginger, peppermint, or peach. By now, the students have gone, and my beverage and I get some alone time. She doesn't mind that I'm multi-tasking, tapping away on my laptop, reading messages, and checking off items on my to-do list as I take sip after sip. Quite intentionally, I get no kick from tea. A spot of honey is not the only shot of sweetness I get to round out the day. Like I said about my friend Coffee, I am just grateful for the company.

Surprise, it's March 1st

My family knows I startle easily. Round any corner of my home to find me on the other side, you'll find me hair-raised, jumping out of my skin, sucking all the air out of the room. 

Growing up, there was a hallway. The dinner hour ended, and I was coaxed into mounting the staircase alone for bedtime. Energy-conscious folks today would be proud because the lights were switched off every single time inviting the shadowy darkness to swallow me whole. One step. Then another. My parents' familiar voices at the table became ever fainter.

On the last short flight, I could see the switch as my eyes adjusted to the dark. If only I could just make it there, I could shine a light on the toothbrushes in the jar, my nightgown hanging on a hook, and some books at my bedside. Quietly, I crept closer...

Then, two arms reached out from the dark of the hallway nook. They clamped down on my shoulders and a desperate shriek screamed for mercy, my body folding beneath the monster in a protective cocoon. 

Of course, I knew it was my brother every single time, but somehow, my brain succumbed to this disquieting routine. 

This year, the month of March seems to have been hiding in an alcove waiting to flex its familial claws. I've been stepping through the dark of February but writing this slice, I am most certainly not alone. 

For posterity

For posterity, I've compiled a list of moments today that I don't want to forget on this last day of March.

That moment when I thought I was going to fall off the side of a castle, I experienced pure terror, until I discovered I was on a slippery slide which made the ride down a pure delight. Then I woke up.

On my drive to school, I saw a familiar long-legged dog and their short-legged person. The walking lady had shed her furry parka, but she had the same fierce look of determination. That one scruffy dad and his equally scruffy son were late for the bus, but waiting at the light, I saw they made it. Then I got to teach.

Instead of sharing yesterday's slice with every kid, I shared it with the group that inspired me to write it. They understood it best because they were in it, my Teacher Town celebrities. Then they kept writing. 

In the middle of a spirited conversation with a friend, she remembered she was late for the Ramadan kickoff to celebrate a new prayer space. She didn't stop talking while she threw a beautiful abaya over her head. I helped her with the buttons. Then she left to pray.

When I arrived home from work, there were dumplings waiting. We all ate them standing up at the counter, dipping sauce and all, and recounted news of the day. Allie the dog sat like a lady in hope of just a morsel. She might have gotten one or two. Then we took her for an evening stroll.

That's all I have, my final words for this month of March. Far better than a dream, and just as much of a thrill.

Staying optimistic in challenging times

Staying optimistic in challenging times. This year's oratorical prompt has my students defining and redefining what it means to face "challenges". They have turned the word "optimism" upside down and side to side. One even Googled: What does it mean to stay optimistic in challenging times? 

With a couple of weeks into the process, writers are way beyond what any search engine can offer. They are sharing their moments in life that no one else has lived. Continually, I'm awed by their acts of bravery. First, to live in this messy tangle of a world and walk into class with a smile (mostly). But also to write. To trust their audience and, most importantly, themselves.

My writer friend––@Walking the Dog––endorsed writing for discovery many years ago. So when my students set their pasts on the page for a closer examination, I cheer them on. The significance of their lived experiences grows deeper word by word. Next comes a conversation:

What did you learn from this? 

Finally, the theme is far greater than one taken from a fairy tale. It is both timeless and modern, also wise and compassionate. The best words I heard this week are worth etching in marble:

I didn't know why I was writing this story, and now I do.

These times are challenging. But when young people are making breakthroughs like that, I believe we can all feel a lot more optimistic about tomorrow.

My apologies to the wind

My apologies to the wind. I think I was short with them yesterday--fed up with the way they were shaking my shingles. 

In my mind, there were leaf buds and cherry blossoms, but the wind that roared all day proclaimed an ever-lasting winter. With icy fists, they carried the hem of the White Witch's gown and turned to the masses with a sneer to say, "Bundle up. We'll be here for a while."

It appears that this so-called threat was––as they say––between my ears. 

Today, the wind was still; that's not why I'm grateful. In truth, I benefited from yesterday's fervor. Their uproar galled my quest for serenity, but their squall turned over mulch and matter. Dried leaves and persistent clover that lay in corners, unformed and neglected, required a nudge. 

If I had listened more closely, I might have heard them coaching, "Alright, wake up. We're turning the corner now, so eyes open!"

What if the wind hadn't called us to action? With my "wake me when it's warm out" attitude, I might have missed the need to shake out the season's debris. I might have missed the beauty it unearthed today.

Without rupture, there is no repair. Creativity is a mystery until it isn't. I didn't know why I wrote this story, but now I do. 

That's all, wind, and I thank you. 

The wind detests stillness

The wind detests stillness. They are pounding pavement and sweeping landscapes. They've been roaring all day, but I can't quite make out what they're saying. I hear them and their gusto. Such guts they have to crank the volume high despite wincing faces and downturned heads. 

Damn, I wish they'd give it a break. Frankly, I'm just about done with their insensitivity. Bring on the sunny days. Move aside and make room for kind words and good news. 

But this meteorological angst and agitation. Is there something I can do? Because I'm just watching and wondering:

If they stopped all that bluster and mustered up some meaning. If they'd stop blowing everything this way and that for long enough to think straight. I might find this late-March wind has something important to say.

Slogans are catchy phrases

Slogans are catchy phrases that convey a message and inspire action.

Just do it.
Open happiness.
Can you hear me now?
Because you're worth it.

What do they want us to do? That's right, buy something. I know, I'm throwing softballs by shining the light on advertising giants. Still, imagine the first draft of I'm loving it. Personally, I'm mystified by the power of three words to conjure images of golden fried potatoes, triple-decker burgers, and chocolate shakes.

Now for something more meaningful: 

What I stand for is what I stand on.
Humans before borders.
We are not free until everyone is free. 

No justice, no peace.

These slogans are more on-point for our goal: How can we overcome the challenges of the modern world so we can live our best life?

I might have mentioned, I'm working on a Best Life project, too. What's my topic? Correct--it's you. So I'll jot down 5 ideas for a slogan. Be kind, this is my first try. I'll do my best to make them unique, memorable, relevant, and inspiring. Here goes:

Arlington Tech: Infinite possibilities. 
Sorry, that's flat-out plagiarism. Here's a tip: If Google already knows your slogan, try again.

You can all go from the page to the stage. 
From your minds to the masses. 
The future is calling. How will you answer?
You are tomorrow's leaders. Thanks in advance.
Here's a match. Now go light a fire.

At 10, my teacher dared me

At 10, my teacher dared me to fill a whole page with words. She dared all of us, of course, to take out loose-leaf paper and channel our power with a pencil. We had just finished a unit on westward expansion with tales of Lewis, Clark, and Sacagawea, families in covered wagons, and the herds of buffalo they found on their way. Instead of feeding us spoonfuls of fill-in-the-blanks, we planned the menu ourselves.

Mrs. O'Malley was very cool. She favored experiences over lectures. She brought in sugar cane and cracked coconuts open because we'd never seen them. She sent us on backyard adventures and had us gluing seeds and pinning insects––eek––to boards. To empower her future consumers, she invited us to weigh McDonald's quarter pounders and count the 1000 squares of a Scott brand toilet paper roll. 

When it came time to write, I'll admit I was nervous with my folder of notes tucked deep inside my desk. If I were to prove to Mrs. O'Malley what I learned, I’d have to flip through the files of my mind. I could see the pages of my neighbors fill line by line. The clock hand circled again and again. But somehow I translated the stories she had told us into my own language. Naming places and placing names, I scared the blank page away and coaxed in history as only I knew it. 

I was 10, so I doubt my writing could be used as a reference today. It was the doing, however, that I remember.

To the students sitting in chairs

To the students sitting in chairs listening to the poet standing on a chair, thank you. A performance without an audience is a tree that falls in a forest, and some words are meant to be heard. This is where you come in.

Sometimes a writer is moved to share. When I welcomed you to the stage by announcing, "The chair is open. Do we have any takers?" you either contemplated, cajoled, or cringed. You felt the rumbling at your table. The window was closed, but you felt a breeze. You might have turned to your partner, locked eyes, and given them the nod. Or perhaps you averted your gaze to avoid your own recruitment. I tried to interpret the whites of your eyes, the sideways glance, or the clenched fist. But I'm basic. As soon as anyone broke through the silence and walked to the front, I cheered. 

Thanks to you for cheering, too.

There are also writers who don't need to say it out loud. In case you need reminding, brilliance can exist in silence. I have read the black and white letters that fill your pages, somewhere between 5 lines and 500, and I don't need the audio feature to send me on a multi-dimensional journey around your world. You've explored the cans and the cannots, what is dear and what is doomed. Poetry or prose, line by line. Although the speaking chair was open, your seat was just fine. You turned your head toward someone else, but you were not forgotten.

Social norms call for us to applaud the speaker. This post is my standing ovation to you.

Chairs are not just for sitting

Chairs are not just for sitting, although I do enjoy their dependability. Such a reliable spot for most students to plant themselves when they come in. We can handily move them to and fro to suit momentary needs. Face forward, turn and talk, form new groups, tip back a little, but not too far.

Such an egalitarian accessory. Some days, I even forget that kids tower over me above 6 feet tall; likewise, shortness is a meaningless construct when chairs do their job. When was the last time you heard someone brag about the length of their torso? Exactly.

Here's the workshop routine: Chat first, read a poem, talk about a poem, and (if we're lucky) hear a little "slice" from me. Then, it's time to write.

Take a risk. 

Jump in.

Trust the idea. 

You might surprise yourself. 

The alarm bell sounds, and groups circle up. But that's not all. Those chairs--flexible devils--are at it again.

A few students accept the invitation to stand up, climb up, and speak up. Because not all words are content to stay on the level. They are energized, raring to breakout. There is no megaphone to be found, nor is it necessary.

The class turns, lifting their chins, silent, open eyes, open ears. Nope, no spotlight; the shine is on the writer. Laptop in hand, strong souls read syllable by syllable, strutting staccato beats, and themes that run deep. Last lines are met with applause and some "Whoo whoo!"

Chairs, I see you. You're so much more.

I bottled one portion of sunshine

I bottled one portion of sunshine yesterday. Rain was in the forecast, but there was a wide patch of pure gold on my driveway in the late afternoon. I took my place in a chair, sat real still, and opened the lid. It took some patience to get the angle right, for the sun is an equal opportunity resource. 

With my hands wrapped firmly around the glass base, I closed my eyes against the glare and meditated on the electromagnetism of my core. Multicolored molecules vibrated in a miraculous cyclone above me, spinning and spiraling into the narrow neck of my container until I secured the top. 

It has rained from morning until night. A steady drip, dropping outside my window has been known to bring me down before, but lucky for me, I thought ahead. The only problem is that the weatherman just called. It looks like I should have bottled two.

What can a teacher do?

What can a teacher do?
Inspired by What can a poem do? by Darius V. Daughtry

a teacher cannot save the universe

they cannot Wandavision your learning

with a combination of telekinesis

and neuroelectric interfacing

however much they'd like to

they cannot make you less bored

or goofy,

or wild

or cynical, or random, or less young,

although oftentimes they try

a teacher cannot mindread their way into your past

to erase the hurts,

scribble red pencil over accidents and false starts,

but they'll try their best with awkward talks

and forgiven faults

one teacher cannot raise teens from rabbit holes

by luring you from the black screen,

the bright lights and tantalizing tabs,

sometimes silence, sleep, or stillness

since it is your life,

your thoughts,

your bodies to breathe

but a teacher can tune in

teachers can invite you, incite you, 

untie you, and unite you

their tasks you will deem busy work or brilliant

useful or useless

tried or true

whether your mornings are a milestone,

or your afternoons an afterthought, 

it is your pen, your calculator, 

your camera, your mind,

your program to be made

a teacher can shuttle you to the runway--

you're in the plane about to take off into the great wide open,

a firely in the summer sky,

a swallow who soars,

a shooting star, 

a rocket on your way to the moon

but a teacher cannot set you aloft

because you are the one 

who will unfold your wings 

to fly  

what if teachers let you think for yourselves

gave you the space you needed to run

phrased the question in just the right way

knew just the moment you were ready 

to set distractions aside 

and dive into the deep black ocean below, 

where the creatures swim in schools 

of phosphorescence and slime 

until you look at us all side-eyed and say

my words are worthy

listen up

yeats said, "Education is not the filling of a pot
but the lighting of a fire."

a teacher can 

hand you the match

My first car was an El Camino

My first car was an El Camino. Seventeen-year-old me drove across town taking up every inch of my lane. There was no hiding even in a two-seater cab. This giant of a ride, with its Texas-sized truck bed, rolled right over my desire to be small. 

The paint was a two-tone blue--maybe fancy when it was new, but when my Dad handed me the keys, rust was creeping over the hood. If memory serves, my parents gave me the go-ahead to add the third tone--more sky than robin's egg-- over the dimpled metal. This was one of many times they said yes to the paintbrush. Squinting did nothing to improve its looks, but what a personality.

I remember the mulch. My industrious parents spent their weekends tending the yard. In my recollection, though, I carried a 3-foot pile to school every single day. When I picked up speed on the highway, I'd spot a spray of soil in my review mirror. Drivers, beware of the girl in the El Camino. 

Later, the car became my first canvas for a protest sign. A friend was suspended from our Catholic school for one whole day. I don't recall his crime as much as I recall the oppressive dean of discipline, Colonel LeFevre, who stored a 100-sheet stack of demerits in his chest pocket. One evening, a few of us in a Bible study asked ourselves what Jesus would do in the face of injustice. The result was rolling broadside with the words, "Free Matt McMahon. Stick it to the chicken!" Then, I parked my gargantuan heap in the Colonel's parking space.

My Mom didn't falter, which says a lot about her. Not only did she send her shy daughter off into the wild world in an absurd set of wheels, but she also answered the Colonel's call with feminist pride. 

"She did what?" she inquired smiling unbeknownst to the martinet on the line. "Of course, I'll talk to her."

In car heaven, that El Camino is home to a garden that grows to this day.

Who hasn't had a splinter?

Who hasn't had a splinter? My youngest slid his foot against a rough spot on the floor this afternoon. A needle of wood punctured the sole, and the alarm bells sounded. Instantly, every family task was set aside so we could gather around the patient. Cradling his foot gingerly, mother, father, and brother leaned in with our advice about how to remove the foreign body.

One grabbed the tweezers; another ran the bath. All hell broke loose when someone offered a needle. Only eleven years old, one might assume he'd give up his foot, squeeze his eyes shut, and clench his teeth until it was over. That was not what happened.

His blood boiled, but he found the words to call off the campaign:

"I dislike it when someone attempts to touch my wound because, almost always, I have it completely under control." 

The group retreated respectfully. I stayed for moral support only. Taking one moment at a time, he faced the beast head-on. With a perfect balance of technique, tools, and patience, he coaxed the enemy out of hiding. A quarter-inch shard now lies upon the soap dish, a vestige of his pain.

In one's personal timeline, there are moments when we surrender and moments when we seize control. Today, I was proud to witness the latter.