Power of Poetry

Poem in Your Pocket Day was a big hit. This is the third year that I've made time in my class for all of my students to choose a poem in advance and then carry it with them. When the actual day arrives, we have an informal poetry reading in English, and I allow the conversation to go vagabond-- taking us where it will, from Langston Hughes to Shel Silverstein to Emily Dickinson, from Jabberwocky to The Raven and back around to some of their favorites that we've read together. It helps that I offer lollipops to all who are willing to read their chosen poems and explain why they carry those with them. Today, every single kid volunteered; that's a first.

Lots of adults in the building and especially the other teachers on my team also support the activity: carrying poems themselves, asking kids what they've chosen, and using any spare minutes to share poetry. No doubt that's a big part of why the kids were so into it. Also, since it's the third year we've celebrated PiYPD, most of the students in our school have been involved in this day before, and a fair number of seventh and eighth graders had poems in their pockets, too. Even so, I have a hunch there's a little more to its success than any of that.

Four years ago, before I had heard of this literary holiday, I did a mini-version of Robert Pinsky's Favorite Poem Project. My students chose a poem and practiced reading it, then I video-recorded their performances along with them telling why they had chosen that piece. It's been a while since I revisited that footage, but I dug out the DVD to see if it would be relevant today. I was surprised at how good it was; I honestly didn't remember what a wonderful job they did-- so earnest and sweet in both delivery and rationale-- and I wanted to take credit for it, but really? A better explanation is probably that poetry is just awesome.

Heartbreaker

Two boys were taken from the care of their mother because she was abusive and neglectful. No one could locate their father, despite the fact that he was in the US Army, so they were put into foster care. Eventually Dad and his new wife were found, and they were given custody of the brothers, but only as foster parents, because he had forfeited his parental rights several years earlier.

These kids are a challenge; they have some serious issues: educational, emotional, social. The younger is in sixth grade. He's super-cute, but when you meet him, you can tell that his cognitive development is clearly delayed. He is not without an impressive talent, though. The thing that really stands out about him is his stealing. Nothing is safe: he'll take anything from anyone, but he especially likes keys and lighters. It's so bad that his stepmother, his "udder mudder," as he calls her, cut the pockets out of all of his pants. Even so, he swiped some money from the PE teachers' office, then he hid the fourteen singles in an empty drawer of an unused desk in the same room, using it like a bank and spending them one at a time.

His dad and stepmother are moving soon; true to the vagabond life of a military man, they've been posted to another state. They've decided to take the older boy with them, but the younger one... he's too much trouble. They don't want him, so they're dropping their petition for custody and leaving him here to become a ward of the state.

Vagabonds Aside for a Minute

A friend of my sister's and his family are moving to our town, and they contacted me to ask about schools. I wrestled with what to say to them before I passed their inquiry on to my sister-in-law, who is both a teacher and a parent. I have some very definite ideas about the schools in our district, but I am not a parent, and I find that what I say is not always what people want to hear.

When I say "people" I really mean white people. Most of them look at the test scores and conclude that the schools which are less ethnically, racially, and economically diverse are somehow better because they have higher aggregate scores. What they don't consider is that all of our schools are equally funded and staffed and have the same programs for exceptional students. In addition, white kids across the county score equally well on the tests, so if that's the yardstick, it doesn't matter where their child goes.

In the meantime, they may be depriving their children of living and working in a diverse environment, an experience that, in my opinion, will be more valuable to them than any of the lessons they may receive in our classrooms, which, by the way, are pretty much the same quality in any school in the system.

Who Will Sing All Our Tomorrows?

Still brooding over the busywork remark, I am nothing if not reflective. It stings because it's true. Hm. Feels like a turning point in my class. We've spent the year sharpening our writing tools, practicing with them on neatly-wrapped assignments, ready made by me. When is it time to test them out for real, and how can I provide that opportunity? I wish I had someone to ask. Despite what I have already planned, I know in my vagabond's bones that the end of the year will be a messy departure from what's already been done, but there will be writing.

Ars Parasitica

We pulled a couple of ticks off the dog this morning. She's almost seven, and these were only the second and third ticks ever. We don't even use flea and tick medication: since such pests have never been an issue, we prefer to spare our pets those toxins.

As rare an occasion as it is, it's very disturbing to realize that you've been sharing close quarters with a blood-sucking parasite. Questions persist-- Where did it come from? Is it just a bad year for ticks? Will there be more? Phantom ticks crawl on you-- every vagabond itch or twinge is probably another one trying to bury its mandibles in your flesh for a blood meal.

I have the two villains imprisoned in a couple of zipper lock snack bags, and I must admit to being at once repelled and fascinated by them. One is fully engorged, a disgusting drop of dark beige. The other is shiny auburn, lean and hungry-- it roams restlessly in its clear plastic prison, diligently testing the corners for some escape. The fat one helplessly waves its legs when disturbed, but otherwise lies motionless.

Eventually they will die in those bags. It is no more than their nature which draws them to us, and I am hesitant to destroy them for that, but who wants two more parasites on the loose?

Cuttin' Grass

It's part of the community garden agreement that each gardener must work two clean-up days over the course of the season. They are scheduled by plot number, and our first one was today. It was with apprehension that I unlocked the gate at a little after nine this morning in search of Alison, the head gardener. It was silly to be nervous, but I wasn't sure what to expect, and vagabond butterflies fluttered in my stomach. My assigned duty turned out to be mowing the common areas and grassy strips in between the gardens.

It's been over eleven years since I last mowed; at our place the landscaping is included in the residents fee. Before that, mowing was my job, and I always liked it, so with the first tug on the engine rope, I began to relax. Back and forth in the neatest of rows I pushed the roaring machine, the results of my labor fair and clear to all who passed. The grass was pretty overgrown in some places, but that only made it more gratifying to walk in the emerald path, newly-shorn. Forty-five minutes later I returned the mower to the shed, my obligation gladly fulfilled.

Armed and Dangerous

I have a student who is outspokenly conservative in his political views. We live in a fairly liberal area, and so this student often finds himself in debates with his peers. A competitive person, he seems to thrive on the conflict, and I get the sense that sometimes he makes purposely outrageous remarks to see what will happen.

Today he tried to engage me in a little argumentative discussion concerning the second amendment. Usually, I try to keep my own opinion as elusive as a vagabond in a train yard, but it doesn't always work out that way.

"I think it should be legal to carry a sidearm," he started. "I want to carry one."

"Okay," I said.

"What about you?" he asked. "Would you carry one?"

"Probably not," I told him.

"Why?"

"I think it's dangerous," I answered.

"How can it be dangerous for you to have a gun to protect yourself?" he wanted to know.

"Well, I wouldn't be the only one who was armed," I said. "Think about the way some people act when they're mad."

"Emilio!" He named a kid with a terrible temper who's been in several fights.

"Okay," I said, "now imagine Emilio with a loaded weapon strapped to his side." He was silent. I shrugged. "Just something to think about, right?"