Poet-in-Residence: Part III

When we met to plan our sessions early last week, the slam poet pointed to May 18 on the calendar. "I can definitely come that day," he told me. "It's my birthday."

"Really?" I asked. "Are you sure you want to?" I was surprised, because it was hard to get a firm commitment from him for any days. I like to think I'm pretty flexible, but that was a challenging meeting.

Later, when he was on his way out, and his confirmed teaching days were as solid as a rope of sand, he asked me to guess how old he would be. "It's a big one," he said.

"Forty?" I shrugged. He looked a little crestfallen, and I knew I was right. Impulsively I offered to make him a birthday cake.

He had a few questions before he accepted. "Are you a good cook? Do you bake from a box or scratch? What's your specialty?" My answers must have been acceptable, because he allowed that a red velvet cake would be his wish. "But I really like coconut," he added. "Will that work?" It would.

The next day his examples to the kids were filled with cupcakes. "Do you want cupcakes next week instead?" I asked him later.

"How many would there be?" he inquired in return.

"The usual 24," I replied. Then we talked about trendy cakes, versus retro cakes (I bake bundts for the students in my homeroom), versus classic cakes. Like many conversations with him, this issue, too, was left unresolved. Later it occurred to me that perhaps he wanted to share his birthday with all the students, and in my mind that meant one thing: mini-cupcakes. Fortunately I've acquired the tins I need for such an undertaking, and so on Monday Night, I baked seven dozen little red velvet cupcakes, piped some cream cheese frosting on each, and topped them with toasted coconut. It took me back to my catering days, and I was pretty pleased with the way they turned out.

Next morning, I checked my facebook account on a whim before school. (I had accepted slam poet's friend request a few days earlier... even though there was something unappealing to me about being friend number 1771.) There I read the following which had been posted four hours before: ...is intoxicated with saki lychee martinis sushi and savory pies thanks to ..., and he still has to teach 6th grade slam poetry in a few hours.

Despite the lovely assonance and alliteration, I rolled my eyes and sighed. Artists!

P.S. He rolled in 20 minutes late for first period, which was really no later than usual. Artists...

TC

Today was the inaugural meeting of the "Tolerance Club" at our school. Founded to empower students to confront intolerance both at large and within their peer groups, it is our latest attempt to curtail the inevitable bullying that is part of middle school. The five adults who came together to sponsor this group have realized that the solution can not come from us; kids have to work to change the prevailing culture from within. We want to support them as they try. At the meeting this afternoon we encouraged the group to follow the advice of Gandhi and "be the change you want to see in the world."

About 18 kids showed up. They munched on chips and did a little survey asking whether they had ever been victim or bully in certain situations, and then we discussed the difference between merely tolerating and true tolerance. On their own they identified the key distinction between just putting up with someone and actually supporting somebody in being the person they are. We agreed that our mission would be to encourage tolerance in ourselves first and then in others.

The most powerful activity was also the most fun for the kids. We gave them maps of the school and colored sticker-dots and asked them to label the bullying hot spots. Then, on a master map projected on a screen, they volunteered to come up and place a dot and share an anecdote with the group. Where were the adults when this happened? we asked. They reported that we were there but we couldn't hear; we were there, but we weren't paying attention; we were there, but we didn't care. What do you wish we had done? we asked. Oh they had lots of suggestions, ranging from corporal punishment to a stern-talking to, but then they realized that we can't solve the problem for them. One sixth grader wanted to give up; he didn't believe it could be fixed, but the others in the group held out hope.

Who thinks you'd like to come to another meeting? we asked. It's totally cool if this isn't your thing.

18 hands shot up.

Binder 101

It's not news to say that kids are hard on their stuff, but the school binder falls into a special category all its own. They may have the shortest lifespan of anything that doesn't come out of a gumball machine.

Over the years that I've been teaching, our school has struggled with finding the perfect binder to recommend. When I first started, the trapper was popular with the kids because it was light weight and came in all sorts of colors and designs. Unfortunately the whole thing was made of plastic, including the rings, and I don't think I ever saw one that lasted over a month of average sixth grade use.

Since then, there has been the rise and modest decline of the canvas zipper model. These have metal rings, one or two compartments, and several pockets. They zip all the way open and closed and have a handle and often a strap for carrying the massive load of paper they contain. Paradoxically, their capacity is their biggest flaw: a disorganized kid can store a mountain of trash in one of those things without any adult ever being any the wiser.

The binder that we favor now is actually the basic three inch three ring design. Made of vinyl-covered cardboard with stainless steel rings, this binder must be relatively organized to function, and that's why we like it. It's biggest shortcoming has been the ease with which the front and back covers tear away from the spine, leaving behind perfectly good rings. Because these binders are relatively inexpensive, our solution is usually to replace the whole thing, but it's hard to shake the nagging guilt stirred by the sight of a bunch of busted binders sitting dump-bound in the trash.

A few months ago, I noticed some brightly colored duct tape when I was out shopping. For four bucks a roll, I bought purple, neon pink and green, along with some basic black. I brought them to school and started using them for minor binder repair. The kids really loved the colors, and the more binders I patched up, the more obvious it became that there was really no need to stop with small fixes, because if vinyl and cardboard are good, then duct tape, vinyl and cardboard are supreme.

Thanks for the Nudge

I confess that I spend my fair share of time in front of a computer screen. In addition to the usual legitimate business of corresponding, grading, research, and writing, I have a habit of following digital breadcrumbs, hopping merrily from one link to another, and with a click and a click and a click, getting lost in finding out. It's pretty bad when your dog notices, though.

Yesterday as we were on our way out the door to enjoy the gorgeous weather, (weather that I will go on record as saying that if I had to pick a single day to be THE weather forever, it would be pretty close to what was out there yesterday), I stopped by the computer to quickly check one other possible destination for our walk. I was scanning a trail map when I was distracted by a throaty little sound at my elbow. It was the dog, whining-- evidently, she's onto the fact that once I sit down here, it can be hours before my butt leaves the chair, and she was ready to go, NOW.

To my credit, I deferred to her instincts.

Adjusting the Pace

Back in 1994 I tore my plantar fascia while out for a run on New Years Day. I thought I had kicked a rock into the curb; that's what it sounded like when it popped. Then I was unable to put any weight on my left foot. In the days before mobile phones, I found myself immobilized and blocks from home, but I made it eventually, hopping and cussing. My sister knew just what it was, and the next day I went to the podiatrist and he confirmed her diagnosis. I was in a cast for six weeks and have worn orthotics in my shoes ever since.

The doctor told me that I had the classic symptom of plantar fasciitis-- heel pain so bad that it was difficult to walk in the morning but that got better throughout the day. At the time, I chalked it up to my advanced age of 31. So this is what it's like to grow old, I winced as I rose from my bed each day, and then I literally gritted my teeth until it stopped hurting a half-hour or so later. Six weeks after my injury when the cast came off, I realized how dumb I was, and I've been pain-free for the last 16 years.

Until a couple of months ago, that is. One day I woke up and realized that that morning ache had sneaked up on me like weeds in the garden, and lately I've been hopping a lot more than I should. I haven't been back to the podiatrist, yet, but it's starting to slow me down. This afternoon we went for an easy walk along the canal, and it took me a while to stretch my foot enough so that I could stride without pain. Even so, it was slow-going, and the pace was frustrating to me, until...

We saw the snake swim right across the water, pull up the bank, and cross the tow path in front of us, before taking its time to disappear into the woods. Then there was the indigo bunting-- I've never seen one in person before, but this little fellow hopped along the path not ten feet from us, then paused on a raspberry cane to give us an excellent view, before flying off in the same direction the snake had gone. There were plenty of turtles, other birds, and a deer to see as well, and it made me realize that slowing down (temporarily) doesn't have to be all bad.

Poet-in-Residence: Part II

To be honest, my second day of intensive poetry workshop was kind of exhausting-- I've done a lot of writing over the last two days. The good news is that my students have, too. In fact, so has the principal and so has the counselor who each spent an entire class period with us today, and who both fully participated in all the activities.

What a powerful message it sent to my students to sit around a huge table elbow to elbow with their teacher and principal, all of us scribbling furiously away, playing with words and experimenting with ideas, reading what we'd written loud and proud, and applauding the efforts of our fellow writers.


when i got here the world smelled 
like blond bombers and cuban missiles,
but two years later, when my brother 
was born, blue beatlemania 
and baby aspirin were in the air.
From five my sister was surrounded by the scent 
of a dusty gray tabby cat.
back then, my father smelled like cold pennies and neckties 
and my mother like birthday cake and bridge,
and our street had the distinct aroma of pink cookie cutters.

these days my house smells like river rocks
and bicycle tires on smooth pavement,
a suggestion of  wood smoke floating beneath it all.

Poet-in-Residence: Part I

I'm still not exactly sure how this happened, but I have a poet-in-residence for the next few weeks. Somebody in the county humanities office wrote a grant and back in September they approached me with a yet-to-be-defined idea about a couple of poets, a couple of middle school English classes, and some kind of slam event in May or June. Of course I accepted, and along the way the other poet and school dropped out, leaving me and my students the beneficiaries of the entire grant.

It's supposed to be a pilot program, so the poet, the grant writer, and I are defining it as we go along. He's a performance poet and therefore composing poems to present is his focus. He wants the students to have 5-7 original pieces to choose from and then to prepare their favorites for competition. Too ambitious? Maybe, but not if today was any indication.

I think we all appreciated a new energy in our class: Today we did list poems and the kids loved the activities; every class left chattering happily. For me it was like being in a poetry workshop all day. I wrote with the students and shared my writing in turn. It was awesome. Turns out that Slam Man is unable to do the same lesson twice, so it really was a full day of new lesson ideas and personal writing for me, and...

He'll be back tomorrow.