On poets and poetry

 This morning I sunk into reading Of Poetry & Protest: From Emmett Till to Trayvon Martin edited by Philip Cushway and Michael Warr. I picked up this collection of poems about Black life by Black writers because it has a poem in it by Camille Dungy, and I'm working on a paper that refers to her work. (The paper is not going well. I struggle with writing academically, which is somewhat ironic since I'm a composition teacher and work in a writing center giving feedback to undergrads and graduates on their academic work.) I could not pull myself out of it until I had consumed the whole volume.

The book was published in 2016. While these are poems of protest, they are also poems that celebrate life and art. Each poem is preceded by a black and white portrait of the poet and a short essay about why they write poetry. It's a beautiful book, and the poems and the reflections about the love of language, the possibility of connection, the power of words reignite a longing to consume the pages, the ideas, the people, out of desire, love, a hunger to contain it all.  There it is in print - what gives us meaning and puts us in relation with one another and transforms pain into poetry and protest. How does poetry contain it all? How can we contain all that poetry? 

Some selections from the essays: 

"I relish the alterable space of a sentence along with words' inherent satellite meanings, shaped and hammered to rhythms in my head. Their force and propulsion feel like lifelines shared with friends. Many poets show the way and what we pray for is a passage into the living: song, prayer, coverted conversations."  - Major Jackson, p 96

"I write because I accept my responsibility as a witness, and because I believe in the trasnformational power of art." - Francis X. Walker p 196

"I write because I cannot stand by and say nothing, because I strive to make sense of the world I've been given, because the soul sings for justice and the song is poetry" - Natasha Tretheway p 189

"When you realize you are in the world to create, to be in love with Truth and Beauty, then only death becomes the thing that stops you."  - Lamont B. Steptoe p 185

"Amid the sorrow and upheaval of saying goodbye to a parent, I realized that poetry was helping me process and artculate my sense of loss and grief - indeed, that poetry was what would help me navigate and comprehend my life." - Tracy K Smith p 180

"Carlos Fuentes wrote: 'We only hurt others when we're incapable of imagining them.' Cruelty is caused by a failure of the imagination. The inability to assign the same feelings and values to another peson that you harbor in yourself. So I help people to imagine, me, Black women, men, and children, in all of our beautiful and terrible selves." - Sonia Sanchez 162

"I grew up seeing the world as filled with hyperbole, irony, metaphor, simile - and slightly 'off center.' ... The words keep dancing inside my head, the sounds an dvoices keep coming, and so I keep writing. ... There are moments when language still gives me a thrill, makes the hair on my arms stand up, takes my breath away. As long as I still fieel that, I'll still be in love with poetry. " - Reginald Harris p 85

What a gift words are. 

On friendship

 I am so grateful for friendship. 

Tonight an old friend and I lingered over an extended dinner in the corner of a little Italian restaurant downtown and left longing for more hours. My friend is here on a work trip and leaves tomorrow, but I am so thankful we were able to carve out time to meet tonight. I left behind work and responsibility for a few hours, but what a blessing to share a really deep conversation about challenging topics and feel lifted up by the freedom to be open and understood. I don't see my friend often anymore - and honestly, we never lived close, so we've always only visited on occasion, but those occasions are causes for celebration.  I have a handful of friends that satisfy that deep longing for connection when we reunite, however briefly, however rarely. What is the root of that cor ad loquitur cor? Whatever it is, I am grateful. 

New school year

       I had a goal at the beginning of the year to try to post weekly again, but poor August received one measly post. This is because I began my new job as a middle school teacher three weeks ago.

Here is a paragraph I started to write back at the end of July when my new job was three weeks in the future (I edited that second sentence):  "I'm still questioning my sanity at saying yes. I have a hard time telling people that this is what I'm doing, and when I look in the mirror, I think how did I get here.  It's a baffling to me. I always said middle school was the grade I'd like to teach least. Where was my mind when I said yes?"

Dare I admit I actually am having fun? I laughed out loud when I was reading some of the kids' letters to themselves. I cried inside when I read others. I already like these kids.

And I like the other 7th and 8th grade teachers. They are kind, thoughtful people who care about these students, also. I enjoy seeing them each day. I want to talk in the hallway and during dismissal, too! Of the 7 7th and 8th grade teachers, five of us are new. One of the veterans is a Dominican sister who is loving and gentle and thoughtful.  Her presence is immediately calming.  She is beloved but a little feared by the kids, even though she rarely raises her voice. She doesn't put up with nonsense.

What I don't like is all of the bureaucracy. On Friday we were handed a few more duties. We already have meetings clogging up prep time and home room time. And I just spent almost 8 hours grading today, and I'm STILL not done. Granted, I'm slow and writing each kid a personal note because this is their first writing assignment, but still. This may be part of the reason 5 of the 7 teachers left last year. They were overworked and underpaid. 

The other thing I miss is the freedom to travel on Fridays. I do get 10 paid days off, but I feel I need to plan them. We had an invitation to go away next weekend, but I feel tied down by prep, grading, and not wanting to use a PTO day. 

So the verdict is still out whether this will be a career or something I did to help out. Sometimes I think of it as a mini-purgatory I can offer up for my lack of gratitude for the jobs I had at the community college and the other college and subbing at the high school, as well as the lack of judgement we showed in purchasing this large, overpriced house whose value keeps falling in a place that hasn't seen temps under 101 for WEEKS. IT IS HOT HERE.  I mourn the passing of a plant each day. The grass is crispy. At least the last few days the heat index is down, and the mornings are cooler. Welcome, September!

Happily, I look forward to "going to work" each morning still. My fourth grader loves, loves, loves that we are at school together. She tells me almost daily. I worry I'm not keeping up with the senior enough, but she is always socializing or studying herself. I am prepared for February will be hard. But I'll let that arrive when it does. In the meantime, I've got some paragraphs to read about "something that symbolizes me."

On the Road Again

The first week of August I spent in Des Moines, Iowa, with my daughter who competed in the Junior Olympic track meet.  

Des Moines was never really on my bucket list, but I ended up really enjoying it. We stayed in an rental apartment in the East Village part of downtown Des Moines. When we first drove up, late on a Sunday night, I was a little disconcerted by the drunk people outside of the apartment building. A party was going on, a loud party, in the building's restaurant/lounge, and some guy was outside cussing into his phone as we pulled up. This was not the a cute little complex I was expecting. After finding parking, lugging our bags upstairs, and looking for ice in the hallway machine, the party seemed to be winding down, but I didn't want to stay at a place with a bunch drunk people around. I spent the next couple of hours looking at other options for accomodations in the city before crashing into bed. 

The bed was comfy, and in the morning light after a good night's rest, I realized the neighborhood wasn't as sketchy as I initially feared. We were less than a mile from the capitol building, blocks from the river and a nice bike path, and a few minutes' walk to coffee shops, restaurants, and cute boutiques. Across the river were more restaurants, a sculpture garden, and more hotels and highrises linked by an elevated pedestrian walkway. Since we had to rush off early to the track meet before I could find a place with a vacancy in my price range or find out if we even could cancel, I decided I'd give it one more night before moving on. Fortunately, the lounge was closed the remainder of our stay, and I ended up loving our little urban getaway. 

Des Moines, although the capitol of Iowa, is not a big city, although it has personality. We were in the trendy urban neighborhood, but a mile's jog along the bike path led to an older community with beautiful old homes. I drove a couple miles the other direction one morning to jog around a lake in a park near downtown. The track meet was at Drake University, which is not a bad looking campus, with lots of native plantings and big trees to give it a botanical garden feel. The surrounding neighborhood where we parked was hit or miss - definitely some houses looked like students lived there. I also admired the neighborhood around the art museum, which I visited in a lull between events during the meet, which also was filled with gorgeous, old brick homes and big, tailored gardens.  The art museum was designed in three stages by Eliel Saarinen, I. M. Pei, and Richard Meier.  Works were exhibited sparely, but to their benefit. I was interested to see the docents leading several groups of adults with sight impairments around the museum and allowing them to touch the sculptures, including a Rodin and a beautiful black water woman by Wangechi Mutu, based on a character from East African folklore.

Because the rental apartment was booked for the weekend, we had to move to a hotel for the last two nights. I also wanted to be able to cancel the reservations for the weekend because I wasn't sure my daughter would qualify for finals in the last relay. This hotel was in a more suburban area, and again I found a trail along a creek that was absolutely beautiful, so pretty that I ran seven miles without noticing until the very end - when I cursed myself for going so far.

Des Moines has surprised me.  I brought a huge bag of books and had a number of projects to work on during the down time between races (She had 5 races on 5 different days), but I was distracted by things to see and do around Des Moines, including watching some exciting races.  A highlight was the art museum, but we also toured the capitol building, which has a law library famous for its ornamental stacks.  With time to spare and half a dozen salons in the area, I treated myself to a hair cut - something I hate doing because I hate paying a lot for bad haircuts. Happily, I liked my cut, and it didn't cost a fortune. I tried four different coffee shops and two bookstores and enjoyed walking around the campus of Drake.  And I did get quite a bit of reading done, too - mostly young people books: The Girl Who Drank the Moon, The Outsiders, Where the Red Fern Grows, The Watsons Go to Birmingham... trying to decide what books to teach. 

My daughter also had a successful meet - she PR'd and medalled in the 800m and her relay teams both medalled also (4th in the 4x800 and 7th in the 4x400 - top 8 medal.) She had to run on 4 different days because each event had qualifying heats and finals, and none were on the same day.  They really want you to stick around.  She now is heading into senior year with a faster time and more options for running in college. She isn't elite level yet, but if she wants to compete in college, she would be a contributor on a lot of teams.

Now in the third week of August, vacation is a dim memory, and I'm getting the school schedule down after a week of classes. More on that to come. 

A sculpture at the airport that reminded me of one our son made from papier mache and plastic bags - same subject

I ran at Drake Relays in college - does this include me? 

Fun murals

The view from our window 

Trying to capture the full moon. Always fail to do it justice.

A Japanese friendship garden along the Des Moines river

The Capitol of Iowa

First lady dolls. a little creepy.

The law library

Oldest books

 

View of the city from Capitol.

More fun murals

Pedestrian bridge honoring women of Des Moines

Fun sculpture

Touching the Rodin

A Henry Tanner

Lawn mowing system

Meanwhile, back at the ranch - The Lion King!

Weeping may endure for the night

 ....but joy comes in the morning. Ps 30:5

I have a mug decorated with this psalm and an image of sunrise over farm fields by William Schickel, my friend's grandfather, that my mom gave me. It's one of my favorites because of the words, the image, the giver, the artist, the weight of the mug. Usually, it brings me a little joy in the morning as I lift the mug to my lips for those first, most delicious, bitter, enlivening sips of coffee.  

But lately, mornings are hard. 

After asking for prayers last week, I packed suitcases for me and for the nine year old as we were flying to San Diego to help our oldest daughter move to her first apartment. She didn't really have much to move, but I knew I wouldn't have time to visit when school started, and this weekend was open, so we booked cheap tickets for a flight Saturday to Wednesday. My daughter was thrilled we were coming. 

Then Saturday morning, as we were heading to the airport, I got news that the funeral for my friends' son, Sean, was going to be Tuesday.  My husband urged me to go. But then my daughter was visibly disappointed when I mentioned it after she picked me up.  Here I was with my living daughter. Should I book another flight to go to the funeral of my friend's son and leave her?

I lay awake that night debating and trying to work out various scenarios in my mind. Originally, I was thinking I would try to go to the visitation Monday and then fly back to Austin from Chicago.  But I also didn't want to desert my own daughter. On the other hand, my other college friend in Chicago, the godmother of the boy who died, encouraged me to come if I could make it. Finally, I decided not to go to the visitation, but to fly out Monday evening for the funeral Tuesday, and return Tuesday night for one more dinner and breakfast with my daughter. This also meant I could leave the nine year old in San Diego, and I would have all day Sunday and a half day Monday with my daughter. We stopped in a thrift shop for a black dress and shoes, and then we did some move in work and visited with San Diego friends, had a good dinner and a good breakfast and good coffee, and then oldest daughter dropped me off again at the airport. 

It all fell in to place, even though my flight was delayed five hours, and I arrived in Chicago at 3:30 in the morning, I ubered to my other friend's house and lay in the dark a few hours, trying again to sleep, and then got ready to go with my other friend. (These were the two college friends I met up with for our 50th birthday celebrations. And that day was actually this friend's birthday. She won't ever forget it.)

What can I say? It was a blessing to be at that funeral with hundreds and hundreds of others - family and friends, the high school and middle school cross country teams, the swim team, the teachers and faculty, families from the community, members of the church. This family had been at the school for nearly 20 years between their 4 kids, who all were baptized and confirmed at the same church. My friend's son was an altar server, a good student, an avid athlete, a friendly, cheerful, loving little brother. His parents both spoke. I don't know how. There wasn't a dry eye among the hundreds there. To start his homily, the young priest read from Sean's eighth grade religion essay, for which he won an award. "We do not need to fear suffering and death because in the end Jesus's cross always wins." 

Surely he is a saint in Heaven now, enjoying the company of other young saints whose families miss them immensely, even though they know they should rejoice. 

Just being at that Mass was worth the trip.  I knew I might not get a chance to really talk to my friend. Only immediate family was invited to the cemetary, but there was a luncheon afterwards for family and friends. I happened to be walking out of the bathroom at the luncheon when my friend walked in the door. We hugged and cried and cried. All I could say is "I love you."  That was enough.

We did get to visit a little more near the end of the luncheon, the three of us from our college group, plus my friend's husband who also was a classmate. We were a little group of college friends who had bonded while running track and cross country thirty years ago. We went to each other's weddings. We were pregnant together when we lived in Chicago for a few years - we had a shower for ourselves when I was pregnant with my fourth, the daughter I had just left, and my friends were each pregnant with their oldest children.  Years later they came to visit Coronado. We met for coffee or happy hour a few times when I had layovers in Chicago. Then there was a meet up at a Notre Dame football game, when we plotted to get together for our birthdays. Over the years, we have seen each other only a handful of times, exchanged Christmas cards, kept up on social media, but those connections made in college are strong. I am so, so grateful.

And so we wept again, talking about our babies. And I, who hardly ever sheds tears, cried again when I told my daughter and my mother and my husband about this beautiful, tragic funeral.  I don't know when joy will come again for my friend. Mornings are probably still full of weeping, as she wakes up, if she even sleeps, knowing her little boy won't be waking up. Her husband asked people to talk about Sean, to remember him, saying:  "Don't be afraid that saying his name will make someone sad. We're already sad. Instead it will bring us joy to know that others remember his spirit and that his memory is being kept alive."

May healing come, and maybe one day, joy.

Here is an article from their local paper: https://www.thehinsdalean.com/story/2023/07/27/news/funeral-mass-honors-life-of-14-year-old/6569.html

A prayer request

Life is so entangled with beauty and tragedy.  Earlier in the week, I granted my senior's request to go to the beach with her friends. This meant driving four hours each way.  Selfishly, I wanted a day at the beach also, so I took her and four friends and our nine year old to Port Aransas on the Gulf Coast.  It was a long drive, but the hours flew by listening to the girls and daydreaming about the future - my constant indulgence.  Sinces temperatures have been over 100 degrees every day for weeks, I keep thinking about where we could move.  We don't have an intentional plan, even though we talk about different options for the future - farm life? A mountain or beach house? A small home in a small city and then travel? Where do we want to be in ten year where the kids will want to come and visit us? Should we find someplace central, someplace easy to travel to, or live close to one kid or another or our parents? It's hard to know when they are scattered.  

The drive was worth it - the oceanfront was cooler, and the water was refreshing, although choppy and brown and some tar was on the beach (remnants of the Deepwater Horizon oil spill that was happening when we lived in Mississippi, or from some other oil rig?).  We went into the town for ice cream and tourist shopping (tshirts and hermit crabs, anyone?), went back to the beach for more waterplay, and then got more food for dinner before heading back. The youngest and I went to a birding area while the older girls shopped. It was a restorative day.

But now I have news of a tragedy. My good friend from college has lost her fourteen year old son in a random, freak accident, a mother's worst fear.  A Jeep exiting a car wash went out of control and hit him as he was walking on the other side of the street.  Tragically, she was driving to meet him and saw the accident. We were all praying for several days while he was on life support that he would survive, but he never recovered brain activity. Their family is shattered. I can't even comprehend the depths of their grief, and yet I sit here imagining it. I have lay awake nights fearing these kinds of accidents, plotting ways to keep my kids safe. And yet there is no way to prevent every accident. No way to predict all the ways life can end.  A reminder that all our plans for the future may come to nothing and all that worrying is for naught. 

While we were praying for the miracle that my friend's son would live, now we pray for the miracle of healing for their hearts.  

What have I done

The last few weeks I have spent prepping to be a 7th and 8th grade ELA teacher. 

As I wrote earlier, initially I said no to this job.  I hadn't been looking for opportunities to teach middle school, although I had thought about teaching high school.  When this one came up, I declined because I wasn't sure I wanted to quit my college jobs to teach middle schoolers. I loved being on campus around the students. I had enough classes lined up plus writing center hours to make a nearly full schedule with Fridays off. I have a daugther who's a senior who needs me. 

But I kept thinking about teaching at the kids' school - it was keeping me awake at night and absorbing my thoughts during the day. Although I knew I'd rather teach high school than middle school, I kept thinking maybe it's time I step into full time teaching, and perhaps this was an opportunity I shouldn't pass up - the door was open to a convenient and rewarding (albeit challenging) job. If I ccouldn't stop thinking about it, maybe this was a call. I'd like being at the same place as the girls. And going to Mass is a part of the job! But still I hesitated.

Then the principal called me back at the end of June and asked again if I would consider teaching maybe as a long term sub. Since I hadn't stopped thinking about whether to switch directions in my life to become a school teacher instead of an adjunct, I thought maybe this was a sign. I like feeling needed. The school lost several staff and faculty, and by midsummer had only filled about half the spots.  They needed me!  Another friend and my aunt both talked abut how much they enjoyed their middle school classes. Feeling altruistic, I said yes, I would take the job - if I could still teach the great questions seminar, which means leaving school early two days a week for 8 weeks. The principal said yes. 

For about a week, I was excited about it. I checked out 30 books from the library about teaching. I talked for a long time to my aunt who recently retired. She sent me all kinds of useful Google docs and gave me great ideas about interactive lesson plans - a huge help. I started digging into my old home school grammar stuff and reading the summer reading assignments and making lists of novels to potentially assign.

But this week, I have woken up with the pit in my stomach thinking, what have I done? What was I thinking? I've walked away from a good thing into a hard thing. How will I keep up with it all? This is the same pit in my stomach I had when we decided to move and buy this house two years ago. I lost ten pounds that summer. 

Ah me. It seems my weakness is being malcontent. 

My husband, who initially encouraged me not to take the job, is now trying to help me see this as an opportunity for spiritual growth. It's for the good of others - like doing a year of service after college.  It also could be my penance, my time in purgatory, for my lack of gratitude for what I have, for my inability to rest in the goodness of the present.  And maybe I'm just suffering from nerves - anxiety about the unknown. If I stay focused on what needs to happen next, I don't feel quite as overwhelmed.  My fourth grader is thrilled we'll be at the same place.  My senior wants to redo my wardrobe and help decorate.  I'm jumping into middle grade lit again trying to decide what novels to teach. The textbook is only so-so (another reason I started to second guess my decision), so I need to come up with a list of texts to supplement. 

I've been thinking a lot about my aunt who passed away and how she loved and inspired her students. She had enthusiasm and a sense of humor, and a love for literature and a heart for young people. She might have questioned my jumping ship from adjuncting to middle school, but she would, I think, have praised teaching as a job like no other - incredibly difficult, but incredibly rewarding. She may be my patron saint.