I Am a Teacher

Every year about this time, my students create an "I Am" poem. It's a skeleton poem with a defined structure, so everyone's looks basically the same in the beginning. In the end, however, each student typically finds a way to take control of something that seems so basic, and they make it sing only their song somehow. I keep several each year to remember special kids, unique voices, and efforts I did not expect. It's one of my favorite activities.

Also, it keeps them from asking me one million questions and whining about no end-of-year parties for at least 25 or 30 minutes. I'm not saying this is the main reason I do it, but it sure doesn't hurt.

Today happens to mark the first day of Teacher Appreciation Week. Therefore, I have chosen to create a bookend "I Am" poem to celebrate. If you know a teacher somewhere, give them a hug this week. They probably need it.

Or buy them a drink at Happy Hour. They probably need that even more.

August

I am a teacher who'll never stop trying.
I wonder what the day shall bring.
I hear the wheels beginning to turn.
I see wonder in their eyes.
I want them all to know their true worth. 
I am a teacher who'll never stop trying. 

I pretend that nothing will go wrong.
I feel their energy streaming down the hall.
I touch their imaginations, their hearts, their spirits. 
I worry I'm just not enough.
I cry when I cannot help them.
I am a teacher who'll never stop trying. 

I understand that they'll soon be gone. 
I say I will always remember, and 
I dream that I actually will.
I try to be enough for everyone.
I hope they know that I care.
I am a teacher who'll never stop trying.


May

I am a teacher, and it's finally May.
I wonder if my deodorant is working,
I hear their chaos and flash.
I see stacks of ungraded papers.
I want to throw them all in the trash.
I am a teacher, and it's finally May.

I pretend to listen to announcements, but
I feel it's a waste of my time.
I touch my last nerve for its toughness, and 
I worry it's the end of the line.
I cried when the copy machine jammed, for 
I haven't got much of a plan.
I am a teacher, and it's finally May.

I understand that they all will be gone soon.
I say I won't miss them a bit.
I dream of bashing alarm clocks, 
Smashing them all straight to shit.
I try to remember all of the good things 
That each student has brought my way.
I hope they know that I really do love them, but
I am a teacher, and it's finally May.


For all my teacher friends, if I had any money whatsoever, the first round would totally be on me.
Thanks for running this race with me.

A Middle-Aged Monday

Last week, someone alerted me that the documentary, Pearl Jam Twenty, would be on VH1 Classic. As it was beginning at 9:30 PM, on a Wednesday night, I thought that I'd be better off recording it and watching it later.

Just barely a week past my 40th birthday, and already I couldn't think of anything that could make me feel older than taping a documentary about my favorite rock band because it was airing before the nightly news. Off of VH-frigging-1 CLASSIC

But I did it. And then I promptly forgot about it. Because that's what old folks do.

Maybe I didn't really forget though. Maybe my brain was just saving it up for a moment that I really needed it. For a moment where I needed to forget that I was 40 and this was Monday and that my knees are achy and that work totally sucked.

Maybe I needed to stand on my couch and jump up and down and sing at the top of my lungs to all the songs that spoke to me when I was young and anxious and too afraid of the world to be properly mad at it.

So I did. 

Not bad for a middle-aged Monday, I guess.

"Corduroy"

"Porch"

Some people remember "Black" as the best ballad on their debut. But I always loved this one. It cuts open my heart and stitches it back together every time.

One of my favorite PJ songs (and a shout-out to documentary maker and creator of Citizen Dick, Cameron Crowe)

You were always the radio song I turned up...

And the trailer for Pearl Jam Twenty. It's beautiful.

Puzzle Pieces

I have a young man in my class this year who might just be the hardest-working man in the 7th grade. He is, for lack of better words, just an incredible kid. He pays attention in class, behaves at all times, and respects his classmates. He is generous to a fault, helpful, and kind. He is not especially popular amongst other kids, but rarely do I see any of them turn him away. He knows and addresses each teacher -- whether you have him or not -- by name. He is the purest of spirits and the biggest of hearts.

And I'm worried.

See, this kid struggles academically. He works hard to focus in class, and he constantly worries about his grades. When he gets a poor grade, he immediately comes to tutoring to fix it. He will sit and work for hours at a time. He reviews his notes. He studies my anchor charts. He can spit out words like "appositive phrase" and "subordinating conjunction" and "dependent clause" with the best of them. He can define them. Mostly, he can recognize them. And he can sometimes create with them, but only in isolation.

See, this kid's brain doesn't work like others. It's like a jigsaw puzzle. He has the pieces. He knows what to do with them. He's constantly checking the picture on the box. But as he works, it's like someone dumped all the pieces from the other puzzles on the shelf into his box. And his brain isn't built to sort all of those pieces. It just isn't. So instead, he picks up a piece, he looks at it, and he knows two things:

A) It's a puzzle piece.

and

2) It's in the same box as the others.

Therefore, it must fit. So he looks at all of the holes in the puzzle, and he attempts to place it in there. Then, realizing that this piece fits none of the spaces, he finds another piece. Maybe a bright orange piece, but the puzzle is clearly an evening sky. And he picks them up, piece after piece, trying them even when it is not logical.

But it is logical to him because they're in the same box. And if they're in the same box, they must go together.

Tomorrow, he has to solve a hell of a puzzle. He's tried 3 times before, but it's as if each time he attempts a solution, it gets worse. Every morning, he greets me. Then he begins the worrying, the fixating, the doubting. See, the worst part is that he knows he can't solve it. And he knows what it means to fail in the attempt. His fear of failure is paralyzing and frantic all at once. He knows that before he even takes the lid off the box, he'll find pieces that don't make sense. Except that they're all in the same box, and if they're in the same box, they SHOULD fit.

For the last two weeks, I have sat with him in tutorials as he prepares for tomorrow. He reads and then looks at the answer choices. We talk through possibilities, but we keep finding odd pieces that have no home. He struggles for the pieces, nervous and searching my face for clues that he might be right. I struggle to hold back my tears, heartbroken and searching for the way to make things alright.

To make the impossible feel possible.

To find the boiling sun in a midnight sky.

The Weight

There is a 20 pound cat on my chest.

I lay on the couch, and this is where she curls up. On my chest.

It is nonsensical. She is a cat. I am a human. I should force her to go elsewhere. This is what it is to be in charge, to be the master. But if you've ever owned a cat, you must realize that you are never the master.

It's hard to breathe. Every movement, every breath, feels heavier and heavier. But there is a comfort to the weight. I have grown accustomed that as soon as I am still, she will find me.

It's a fine line between being trapped and being grounded. But her presence is more the latter than the former, like putting a big rock on the end of your kite string to keep it from floating away into the unknown.

It is hot and uncomfortable. I shift and squirm to try to find some relief without being the asshole that throws this lovable fat cat across the room. The tv show has ended, but I cannot reach the remote. So I lay in silence, listening to her rumbling purr, deep and endless, thinking all the thoughts I won't give time or energy to all day.

And just as I'm about to give up, to cast her aside, to push her away -- she turns her sweet face to mine, stops her purr, and sighs the deepest, most human, sigh she can. And I bury my face in her fur and sob. I cry hard for a few moments, sniveling and ugly. I let go of all the things -- all the hateful, jealous, frightful things I've locked up, deep inside me.

She doesn't meow or whine or run away. She just lets me sob, soaking her fur with my fury and fear, until it is exhausted. Then, she clambers down into the floor, taking all of her weight and my own, leaving me lighter.

And I can breathe once more.

Eye on the Ball

If there were one defining phrase to describe my mother, it would be "eye on the ball".  I've watched her hit screaming liners and home runs. I've seen her hit drives so pure and sweet they could sweeten all the iced tea of the South. She played basketball during the 6-on-6 days, playing only defense for entire games, always with one eye on the basketball and one on her man. She preached to me, all my life, the dangers of losing sight of either.

Keep the game in front of you. Keep your eye on the ball. These were not just lessons for sport. For my mom, they were rules to life. My mom is a survivalist. Survivors do not look back at the bear chasing them down; they put as much distance as possible between it and them.

Forever, I thought my mom hoarded secrets like my dad hoarded tools or knick-knacks. She never spoke about her childhood or family or life before all of us. Even as we grew, she never seemed wistful or sentimental. Never looking at old photo albums or reliving moments when we were small. Those qualities were purely Dean. Instead, Wanda was looking forward, waiting for the next turn, the next game, the next crisis. She was the mover, I thought, while my dad was the shaker. 

As a child, I was eternally frustrated and confused by this particular quality of my mom. I was left constantly wondering and guessing about what she did not say and did not share. I felt I was always running behind, and my mother has never been one to look back. Privacy seemed to be her greatest weapon. She did not offer; I did not intrude. And this was our dance of life. 

Even as my dad got sick, she kept their problems at bay as long as she could. As he worsened, even in the final months, she tried to stay focused and look ahead. I think that only as she saw the future dwindling, she began to look back. Since Christmas, my mother has changed. She talks more: about politics and world events, about fear, about her past. Each visit, I learn new things. Some she gives freely. Others require questions. But there are no more secrets. 

Tonight, as we cooked dinner, she talked about her life before Dad. Before all of us. It was deep and wide, swimming with nostalgia and regret. I leaned on the kitchen sink, watching her as she stirred and spoke and then looking out the window when it felt too much. It was a beautiful and intimate reflection, and I suddenly was aware that it was less conversation and more confession. My mother doesn't have a storage shed full of knick-knacks and tools to give me. Instead she has left me this: herself. 

And I began to wonder if I had been locked out all those years or just too afraid to turn the doorknob? 

Mondays

My 7th period class came in today, and they were so unbelievably, alarmingly quiet. Sober, subdued, and silent. Although there are only 11 of them, they can turn my classroom upside down and inside-out just as fast as my largest class. But not today.

When I asked them if everything was okay, they just stared back at me -- their eyes glazed and defeated. Like zombies who had even lost interest in brains.

Finally, one of my boys said, "It's just so... so... Monday."

I couldn't help but smile. He was right. Even outside, the weather seemed to feel it too. Dark. Ominous. It looked like rain all day, but it couldn't quite gather the energy.

I was all up in my Monday-feels today, too, although it wasn't quite as bad as 7th period, I think. Mondays are for waking up late, forgetting to put on deodorant, wearing the wrong shoes, and hitting every red light.

If both copy machines at work are going to break down, it will surely happen on a Monday. If your bag of garbage is going to split and pour out onto the sidewalk, it will happen on a Monday as it did today. It's science. Or voodoo. Or both.

Mondays look like traffic jams and smell like burnt popcorn.

Mondays. Damn you. Mondays.

The Dodge

When I was 16, my mom bought me my first car. It was not the "big red bow across a shiny new BMW" moment that you see on commercials. Far from it. In fact, when I look back on it, that thing was barely a car. It was more like a tank.

My first car was a 1972 Dodge Coronet. It was 1992. I'll let you do the math.

My mom bought it from a family friend, Margaret Pettit, whose granddaughter, Larinda had driven it through high school. My mom paid $150 for the car, and she paid it out in hairdos. At $15 a pop for a shampoo and set, my dear mom paid off my Sweet Sixteen gift in just 10 weeks.

The Dodge was hunter green, in most places at least, and it was as big and solid as a rhinoceros. It had no grill, a back door that would not open, and quilts stapled to the front seat instead of upholstery. It was perpetually summer in that car as the heater was always on. In fact, the controls had somehow melted so that even if you wanted to turn the heat off (in warm weather) or up high (in the winter), you couldn't. Crank windows served as the only temperature control available.

It was scratched and dinged and rusted in spots. On the passenger side, the floorboard was so thin that it showed road as you drove along. Or it might allow in a little lake water if one were to accidentally drive it in partway off of the beach. Not that I'd know anything about that.

That car had lived, and it had the scars to prove it.

When my mom and dad gave me The Dodge, I tried to be happy. It should've been freedom from the school bus and less dependence on my parents. But all I saw were those scars. I drove it some, back and forth to school mainly, but I did not hide my embarrassment and disappointment well. Feeling guilty, there were more mornings than not, where my mom would drive the Dodge to work while I drove  her car to school. Looking back, it was probably the most snot-nosed, spoiled brat move I ever made. Yet what good is being sixteen if you can't be a brat about it?

It wasn't until a couple of the boys at school drove it and realized how fast it would go and how unbreakable it felt that I began to see past its shell. That I could appreciate it as more than a car but as a legacy. I drove it for another year or so -- until I got a different Dodge at 17 -- through fields, down country dirt roads, and, perhaps, into a lake for just a few moments. There was nothing you could do to that car that it could not take.

I don't truly know what number owner I was for the Dodge. I knew that Larinda had driven the Hell out of it, but I can't be sure of the owner(s) in the 7 or 8 years  between us. I can remember her cruising past us at the City Pool or making the drag. The engine was loud and the radio louder. But always, loudest of all, was  Larinda. She had a laugh as big as Texas and a hug so tight that it would make your eyes pop out. She was strong and powerful with a spirit that could bring a storm as quickly as it brought sunshine.

Last week, I heard the news that Larinda had passed away. Not even 50 years old. Although I had not seen her in almost 20 years, there was a moment I could still hear her laugh. I thought instantly of that old Dodge, by far our biggest connection. And I smiled as I remembered it.

My dad kept that big ol' Dodge for several years after I went off to college. I was on my 3rd or even 4th car by the time he sold it to someone else. But he confessed that there were often times when his truck or my mom's car would not start, and one of them would go grab the keys to Mean Green and give it a roll. He said it was the only car we'd owned that never once failed him.

I hadn't appreciated that car for what it was worth. I did not, or could not, see its value to my life. I knew not of its history, or its troubles. I saw only its scratches, its  scars, its dings. I never stopped to marvel at all it had endured to survive. I worried more about the outside than I cared for what was inside -- that which was steady, strong, and unfailing. I could not like it until others gave me permission -- encouragement, even -- to love it.

And I have wondered often in the past few days how like that car is to me. Or to Larinda. Or to all of the other people moving in and out of our lives. How do we view our own scratches and dings -- with shame or with pride at our survival? Do we give up when the upholstery rips and tears, or do we find a way to mend?  Are we built for the showroom or the open road?

Wherever you are, Larinda, I hope you're singing along with those windows down. Thanks for the ride.