Cultivating Couture

Another unexpected complication of the whole gardening thing-- I don't know what to wear when I'm working there. Yesterday the weather was unseasonably warm, but shorts weren't really right for kneeling in the dirt digging up weeds and roots, and jeans were too hot. What to do? (Not usually one to fuss about my clothes, I went for capri-length cut-off jeans, a look as odd as it was practical.)

The fact that people we know keep stopping to chat doesn't help. "I thought that was you!" they call through the fence in delight, and my garden anonymity evaporates, making me self-conscious about not only my wardrobe, but all those awkward postures that seem to be part of the job, too-- I spent a good part of the day with my butt in the air.

It's humbling; that it is.

Thirty Ways of Looking at a Vagabond

I.
What, exactly is there to look forward to?—
Long days of eggish sun and unrelenting heat,
where cool breezes are nothing more than vagabonds
waiting to hop the next jet stream north.

II.
Vagabond sparks fly through the gathering dark,
brilliant yellow on deep violet.

III.
As we listen, my vagabond brain
starts nicknaming all of her family members, too—

IV.
From the first page I was a vagabond
aboard an express train, dusty and sweet.
There was no stopping until we got to the end of the line.

V.
There were tales of long car rides with unruly siblings,
games lost at the last minute,
vagabond pets,
cousins who wouldn't leave,
sightseeing in the pouring rain,
parents who forced their children
out of bed for all manner of sunrise services,
grandparents who insisted that reading at the table was rude,
and television shows that simply disappointed.

VI.
Unlike the vagabond
only concerned with the road ahead,
I worried.

VII.
It was a flexible deadline,
more along the lines
of a vagabond's ETA.

VIII.
How surprised was I…
to feel a little vagabond smile
sneaking across my face?

IX.
Poor vagabonds, they spent the winter outside.

X.
Vagabond weeds had set up camp
on the abandoned rectangle.

XI.
Loads of tiny acorns,
each with a pale green filament,
extended hopefully into the soil.
Sorry to disappoint them,
I gave them a vagabond's chance
to put down roots somewhere else.

XII.
After one unsuccessful lap of the lot
and a near collision
with a vagabond shopping cart
I went home

XIII.
There stood a well-scrubbed young man
in a gaudy lime and white windbreaker
over shirt and tie. No vagabond he.

XIV.
There are lots of worms vagabonding all through the soil,
which I hear is a good sign.

XV.
I lay awake as one vagabond worry
after another tightened its grip on my gut.
XVI.
I hit the road, ride the rails,
or travel along the open trails.
I've set up camp at Walking the Dog,
but when May comes I'll leave this blog.

XVII.
Haricots verts and tomato
garnished a salad of14
vagabond spring greens

XVIII.
I'll never be a comfort zone vagabond
roaming merrily into the untested.

XIX.
Most of my passwords are vagabonds
on the express train to amnesia.

XX.
We took a vagabond's side trip into infamy
before we ever made it
to plain old heroes.

XXI.
My suggestions hold no interest for her;
they're like vagabonds asking for a handout—
she pretends not to hear them.

XXII.
In forty-eight hours,
my experience as a vagabond teacher
will commence.

XXIII.
I keep my own opinion
as elusive as a vagabond in a train yard.

XXIV.
Vagabond butterflies
fluttered in my stomach.

XXV.
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.

XXVI.
I know in my vagabond's bones
that the end of the year
will be a messy departure
from what's already been done.

XXVII.
Vagabonds aside for a minute…

XXVIII.
True to the vagabond life
of a military man
they’ve been posted to another state.

XXIX.
I allow the conversation
to go vagabond—
taking us where it will.

XXX.
We end
with a vagabond dispatch
from the front lines
of public education.

News of the Week

Here's a vagabond dispatch from the front lines of public education:

Earlier this week, some sixth graders told a counselor that a few kids were calling people "dirty Jews." It was a teachable moment, so here's how she approached it:

"Is there anything wrong with being Jewish?" she asked the group.

They assured her there was not.

"Then why would you use it as a negative?" she wanted to know.

They were stumped.

"What about Muslim, or Christian, or any other religion-- anything wrong with them?"

No, no, and no.

"What other names do people call each other?" she wondered.

Gay was number one.

"Well, is there anything wrong with being gay?"

The consensus was no.

Wow. Most kids think it's okay to be gay-- or at least they say so-- and whether they actually believe it, or just think that's the "right" answer, things have changed a lot in the last few years.

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.