Georgia A. Popoff - Community Poet/Artist Educator

ODS Nominated for NAACP Image Award!

2012-01-22T21:42:00.001-05:00

The NAACP Image Award nominations were announced in Los Angeles at 9:00 a.m. PST on Thursday, January 19, 2012. I am honored to share that my coauthor, Quraysh Ali Lansana, and I were nominated for our book, Our Difficult Sunlight: A Guide to Poetry, Literacy, & Social Justice in Classroom & Community, in the category of Instructional Literature. What a thrill this is to be considered in this significant arena of recognition.

The Howard University literary journal, Amistad, republished an excerpt including the foreword by the esteemed educator, Dr. Carol D. Lee, and the prologue. The link above will take you to the site, and the reprint starts on page 99.

You can order ODS from the major on-line sources: Powell's, Amazon, and Barnes & Noble.

But most of all, you can vote for us for the NAACP Image Awards: http://www.naacpimageawards.net/43/nominees-and-honorees/cast-your-vote/. Your advocacy and support are appreciated. The Awards will be broadcast live on NBC on Friday, February 17th, at 8 p.m. EST. Wouldn't it be marvelous to give an acceptance speech?! Ha!

The Power of Knowing Oneself

2012-01-05T17:16:00.000-05:00

I believe that there are two ways of moving through the world: to trust all whom we meet until they prove that we cannot, or to trust no one until they prove that we can. I am of the first ilk.

Today I had an uncomfortable experience that now, a couple of hours later, I am looking at much differently than I did in the moment. I was at lunch with a couple of colleagues and, towards the end of the discussion, one of them lodged what I perceive as a very heated, even vicious attack on me. It seemed to come out of nowhere, especially since I have considered this individual as a friend and certainly to be likeminded. But hey, it happens and I am not always the best judge of others. I take people at face value and assume that they are trustworthy until they prove otherwise, as I stated above.

One of the challenges that was slung at me like hot tar was that of my "qualifications." What were my qualifications that allowed me to make judgments of others' work, etc., to make my assertions of what I believe and know of poetry? This individual pressed on: "You only have your Associates degree, right?!" I replied, "No..." "You have a B.A.?!" Again, "No." "You don't have any degree?! Well, you have no qualifications...you have no rights to sit on your mountaintop and proclaim you know anything at all..."

If only this had been the sum of the slurs and hurtful accusations. I will forgo the remainder. But this one of the predominant of those many hurdles I have struggled to top for a long, long time. What is even more hurtful is that this individual knows that I do not have any academic degrees and also knows that it has been a considerable sore point for me, a source of insecurity and self-doubt for as long as I can remember. It has also been an insecurity that I have been healing because I have to look at the 7-page CV with honest eyes and see what I have done, in spite of no college diploma.

What gives me the "right" to teach poetry, to guide others, and to make aesthetic determinations of others' work? I can start with this: 40 years of immersion in poetry with an eagerness to learn, grow, apply what I glean, and learn more. I have one chapbook, two full-length collections of poetry, and a textbook for educators to my name. I have published many individual poems, and I have written numerous critical essays over the years. I have been teaching at some level for nearly 20 years now, now to the tune of 2000+ students of all ages annually, and I have been an editor for more than 15 years.

I read poems, essays, novels, memoirs, blogs, articles, and loll about in the world of language. I push myself a great deal and I teach what I want to learn. It is in the teaching where I most have to validate my own aesthetic, sometimes to someone who is in their 60s, sometimes to a 3rd grader, but always have to give an authentic and informed reason to substantiate my statements in an effort to support that other person in their pursuit of language, expression, and craft.

I am not a person who has ulterior motives. There are those who have attempted to accuse me of such over the years. I have to remember that they can only accuse me of such only because they are capable of it themselves. These people are often bullies. This afternoon, I dined with a bully; a bully who also chose to attack and insult in a public place, which is also an act of cowardice.

I don't have a diploma on my wall. But I intend to by the time I turn 60, 2 years from now. I will be completing my degree because it has become such an important symbol to our society of what we know and how much we can be trusted. Somehow, someone young enough to be my son or daughter could have achieved his or her MFA and have more respect than the many years of self-study and practical application I have completed in my 40 years of adulthood. It is curious that a peer would froth so much at the mouth over such a thing.

What I know about myself is that I do what I can and as much as I can to support my friends, my peers, and my students, in fact, my community, both locally and at large. I am not perfect. I miss deadlines sometimes. I do not follow through sometimes, mostly because it has always been hard for me to say no to a request for help when I think I have something to offer. But I have never found a perfect human either. It is antithetical to the definition.

I also know that I am an accomplished artist who has persevered in spite of many obstacles, some of which were self-fashioned. I know I am persistent and resilient. I know that I am pure in my intention. And I know that I will always have the opportunity to grow and learn more, which I hope to express in quality writing and in effective teaching.

That is enough for me. If others want to see me in a light that is merely a projection of their own fears and flaws, so be it. In the sage words of some book I have never read but think of often, "It is none of my business what you think of me." I was angry and frustrated in the moment but I know what my qualifications are: a life well lived, an honest heart, a giving intention, and a whole lot of poems committed to the page. That will just have to suffice.

Goodbye 2011 - It's Been Good to Know Ya!

2011-12-30T11:02:00.001-05:00

Every year, I find the transition from one year to the next unsettling. Perspectives change just in the passage of a day into another year. It is odd. This year, Samoa is losing a whole day as they switch to a time zone that is more in keeping with their primary trade partners. That is how elusive and malleable time is, because it is an arbitrary construct that suits the mood of humanity more than the cycles of the moon or the turn of the seasons. Time makes things convenient and provides agreement among our species, as well as conflict and guilt. This is proven every time we are late for any appointment.

The end of the year is the review time for many of us. I enter every year saying, "Next year is my turnaround time...the challenges will ease...I will make my breakthrough to stability..." Then, each year gives me many blessings and a wrath of challenges to adjust to as I journey through the calendar.

As I entered 2011, I was extremely optimistic. I knew it was the year that Our Difficult Sunlight was going to be released, after 3 years in the making. I appreciate Teachers & Writers Collaborative for publishing the book, taking the risk on our proposal.

This book was going to open many doors and further my career, as well as provide new opportunities for my coauthor, Quraysh Ali Lansana. Somehow and with many bumps and trials, the book was made manifest, starting as a thought and a list of ideas nearly 6 years ago. It is a remarkable accomplishment. What I did not anticipate was that promoting it was going to be so dependent on the efforts of Q and myself. But we know how to do that. We have been promoting our own books of poetry for years. So we rolled up our sleeves and got busy. Most of our promotional efforts is through personal contacts and the internet; we are building our market and the books are getting into the hands of those who benefit from our pedagogy, even if at a slower pace than we anticipated.

I have lost one of my major contracts in the 2011-12 school year due to the impact of the economy on school districts. It is a travesty what our leaders is permitting and actually orchestrating in the realm of American education. I could go on for a long time about this issue. I Tweet about it regularly. And now it affects me directly.

With the rug pulled out from under me again, I have been scraping together what I can to get through these past 6 months until I could redefine my work profile and recreate the sources of income to replace that work now gone. I have been in a dark place in all of this but I have also responded by stretching beyond the boundaries I have previously recognized or created. What has come of that is a confidence in my work and capacity that I did not possess before this. I see myself as a mature artist with a body of work as a foundation that gives me pride and a hope for all the new work that is lined up in my brain and in various files on my computer like planes on the tarmac at O'Hare.

I am 2 months behind on almost all of my bills. I am shuffling funds to meet the most crucial need any given day and sometimes arguing with bill collectors as to why I cannot agree to their suggestions for the payments they want at that moment. I have found that if the employees on the other end of the line are American, they almost always understand my frustrations. They live here and they are talking to hundreds of people like me every week. I will get through. I know this. When I am most frightened, I remind myself that I will get through because I am resourceful, resilient, and relentless. And because I always have...why would it change now?

I have a wonderful part-time job working at the Downtown Writer's Center as workshop coordinator. I follow in the footsteps of Jennifer Pashley in this role and hold a hearty commitment to this organization, now in its 11th year. I have taught there since the beginning and now we are planning for new programs that will continue to build that community of writers in the Central NY region. I also continue to teach there, which is a delightful experience in supporting other writers achieve their own capacity. After all, we teach what we want to learn!

Quraysh and I developed a number of trainings throughout 2011 that were exhilarating as they unfolded, including a day with educators at the Jane Addams Hull House Museum last winter. We attended several conferences to offer panels and workshops, all of them a tremendous success. We met many teachers and teaching artists who are striving to connect with our nation's youth throughout the country and in spite of the many limitations. We celebrate them all for their efforts.

We both visited colleges and universities to share the book and our own creative work as poets. I look forward to many more opportunities in the realm of higher education. But I am very grateful for those thus far, especially our trip to the University of New Haven, and my visit to Waynesburg University this fall.

We have applied for a nomination for an NAACP Image Award. We have so many to thank for this past year for welcoming us and helping promote our book. We are hoping for much recognition and continued support of our book to develop and grow its market, now that the snowball has started its roll down from the mountaintop. We will endeavor to find ways of sharing our pedagogy, as presented in ODS and, hopefully, we will realize great success for the efforts.

I am personally hoping for several other opportunities for which I have made application. I am often reminded by my dear friend, Dale Davis, of the advice of the great Al Poulin, founder of BOA Editions, Ltd.; she tells me that Al would often say that you have to launch many balloons into the air. At some point, the more options one pursues, the more likely success will unfold. Then we must also remember: it is a waiting game as well. To wait with optimism and accepting that I am of the caliber of candidate for any grant, fellowship, consulting gig, or other career opportunity but without attachment to the outcome in the waiting. This is the most difficult aspect of facing the future.

School projects start in a couple of weeks. I will return to one of my favorite schools, the Watkins Glen Middle School. I will also be introduced to two new schools in Horseheads, NY, in a collaborative arts-in-ed project with the Arnot Art Museum in Elmira, NY. This is a gem of a cultural experience in a small city, a surprise and a treasure trove of art.

I am also creating programming with the Schweinfurth Memorial Art Center in Auburn, NY, another fabulous museum and arts community in another small city. Art is everywhere and often undervalued, but, like school reform, another lengthy and emotional discussion.

I also continue with my efforts as managing editor of the Comstock Review. I have been very tardy in the publishing schedule as I learn how to integrate this important job into my life but we have come through our 25th anniversary and I am planning for the future while I catch up on the backlog. I only hope that all the poets will continue to be patient and forgive for the delays. I also anticipate that the quality of the issues will be satisfaction enough. I am proud of our journal and it is an honor to facilitate the publication of so many talented writers. Here's to many more years but that, again, is a lengthy discussion regarding building that future and all that it involves.

I have other projects that are brewing, other potential sources of income and career development. I will repeat my New Year's rituals of meditation in the 30 minutes leading up to the turn at midnight from one reality to the next. I will ring the bell 108 times, as I have been doing since I first visited the West Coast and sat in the zendo at the Hartford Street Zen Center in the late 1980s. Then I will take all of the little prayer requests I have written and placed in a special receptacle throughout the year and burn them in my chiminea with some lavender and rosemary. I will release my fears and disappointments and petition the universe to move me forward and answer my prayers. I will wake later that morning feeling refreshed and I will continue to put one foot in front of the next as I progress through the year. Here's hoping...my fingers are crossed...

I am filled with gratitude for the countless blessings of this year, too many to cite here but clearly cataloged in my gratitude journal and etched on my heart. This miracle of life, even at its darkest, astounds me.

Thanks for reading my blog throughout this year and I hope you will continue to return. Please share my link with friends. Consider purchasing Our Difficult Sunlight, either for yourself or for a friend who teaches. I am entrenched in the progressive education reform tweeting world. Find me on Twitter if you do that sort of thing: @gappoet. It is always a spirited exchange!

Have a happy and safe New Year. Be well in all ways. Have a happy and safe New Year. I will see you in 2012. Proceed and be bold. I will see you in 2012.

My First Airplane Ride - Memories of Christmas

2011-12-23T17:28:00.000-05:00

Here's where my life on the road began: at five, my mother took me to Hancock Airport in Syracuse, NY, and put me on a plane to MacArthur Field on Long Island. The plane was impressive, like a giant tin toy. My little legs climbed the stairs in the cold night air, then I entered the tube of the plane, where a stewardess in a trim uniform and bright lipstick smiled wide as a lazy moon. She took me to a seat. The plane's engines started up and the propellers whirred and rattled. I was the only child aboard.

During the flight, the stewardess took me to the cockpit. It was magical, the view through the windshield, the reflection of all the lights and dials glowing the data twice, the handsome pilots in starched white and sturdy caps. I think they gave me wings.

When we arrived back on earth, I walked down the stairs to the tarmac and towards the small terminal with the stewardess, where I was met by my birth father. I was there to fulfill his visitation rights. I don't remember how long I stayed before I did the trip in reverse, minus the tour of the cockpit, and returned to my home, my mother, my stepdad, and my baby sister, my life.

This was the only time I made the journey by plane until I was 16, again flying to put in time with my father of origin.

By the time I was seven, it had been agreed that I was to spend every other holiday with my father; biannual Christmas visits and in the off years for that holiday, I was shipped to him for Thanksgiving and Easter. I also had several weekends during the school year that I made the journey, and two weeks each summer.

To save money, always the case with my father, I started traveling on the New York Central to Grand Central Station. The tracks were so close to the Hudson that, in the winter, I feared the train would slip the rails and we would pummel into the cold water. I didn't know how to swim. I worried I would die. I moved away from the window. I was alone, the rhythm of the train rocking me out of my worry.

By this time, my father had remarried. I had to assimilate into a new family, his in-laws. I had grown a new family with my mom and stepdad, who will be known as Daddy from now on. My birth father will always be only that. I was four when Mommy married Daddy. My first sister came not long after that. With that marriage, I gained new aunts, uncles, cousins, my wacky Grandpa Chris, and my beloved Grandma Anna. And now, my new stepmother's clan was to be mine, or so was the expectation. I hardly knew her but I was supposed to adjust immediately to her family tree.

The first Christmas with that stepmother seemed sparkly. My stocking was huge, I got a giant doll that later came to spook me at night during my summer visit. She was just too close to my size and her eyes were always open.

That marriage failed a couple of years later. But not before the winter that stepmother #1 taught me to knit, or so she thought. I was thrilled. I stepped back onto the train to return home with a ball of white yarn and a pair of blue aluminum knitting needles, probably size 8, same as my age. A row of stitches was cast onto one of them. I slid the stitches back and forth, confident in my skill and fully engaged for a long time. I remember showing the conductor I was knitting, very proud of myself. We rode up the Hudson and along the Mohawk; I slid the little white loops back and forth with precision, but never looping the yard to add a row. I forgot that part of the process. It didn't even dawn on me until what seems like hours later, when I realized that my project was not any longer than when the train pulled out of Manhattan. My mother, a skilled knitter herself, showed me again and I have been knitting ever since. I still love counting the stitches over and over, as the one long strand loops into a sweater or a tea cozy, the yard wrapping through my fingers, the consistent click and swoosh of needles against each other.

Eventually, my father married a third wife, a woman I just love. She was from a huge family, her parents Italian immigrants. It was overwhelming and joyous. A remarkable number of names to learn. I also had to reacquaint myself with all the aunts, uncles, and cousins on my father's side each holiday. I never really felt like I belonged in any of these families. I was always painfully disconnected in those gatherings and so very far from what my siblings and parents were doing.

By this time, I was riding Greyhound, the cheapest option yet. That suited my father even more. At least an 8-hour trip into the Port Authority, if weather permitted. It was torture, especially the one year it snowed so hard the trip took 11 hours and the drunk sitting next to me passed out and slept all the way to Albany with his head on my shoulder. I pressed my face against the freezing, wet window just to try to pull away from his stale breath. I was 10.

It was even worse after my mother died. Being away from my brother and sisters was horrid. I don't know if they even remember that I was not there half of our holidays each year. I don't know why any of this was ever permitted, actually, but that can never be answered. Suffice it to say, it was another time, things were different.

When in I was in high school, life changed dramatically again, when Daddy fell in love. Finally healed from my mother's death, he met the woman who would become his second wife (my third stepmother). She came into our lives with another family, another tradition to uphold, a whole new circumstance to learn.

I have been immersed in blended families for decades before the term was ever coined. I have been looking for the context of family my whole life. I believe myself to be among family but the constructs of the relationship always change for me, even as an adult. As the unmarried one in the family, I used to spin circles to visit all the different houses of my family members, and then sometimes those of the families of the men I might be dating. When I bought my house, I stopped traveling on Christmas. No public transportation. No being in a corner of the room with people I know but am not always sure that I fit in. I spend Christmas in my own home and others are welcomed to visit me. Here, I am at peace, with my gleaming Christmas tree, and my knitting needles in hand. Maybe next year, I will buy an airplane ornament to nestle into the branches.

Teachers Foster the Future

2011-11-08T12:26:00.001-05:00

When I was achild, I knew I wanted to write and I wanted to be a teacher. Little did I knowthe convoluted journey my life would become and the unconventional ways I wouldmeet both of these aspirations.

I did not pursuethe traditional teacher’s route but worked in any different aspects of businessthroughout my 20s and 30s, elements of which I have applied throughout mycareer since. Being involved in business from the bottom up, including beingpart of a team that built and managed an arts-in-education nonprofit agency,has taught me a great deal of the nuts and bolts of an organization andbuilding a constituency, as well as serving those people who benefit.

As anindependent artist educator for the past 12 years, I have been in countlessclassrooms at every grade level. Over the past 6 years, I have beenwriter-in-residence in the Middletown Extended Central School District inOrange County, NY, serving two elementary schools, two middle schools, and onehigh school as an element of their district-wide literacy initiative. Inaddition, I have been in residence in two to five other districts annually fornearly 10 years. I have averaged a teaching practice of nearly 2,000 studentsand 70 teachers and teaching assistants in K-12 environments annually since2006. I have also been active in designing and implementing school day andafter school programming, as well as a considerable amount of professionaldevelopment for educators, both within the duties with my agency as a program directorand as an independent consultant to school districts and community-basedorganizations.

I have beenlistening to teachers copiously. Teachers are the key to student success butnow teachers are expected to perform many duties well beyond their expectationwhen they graduate from a school of education. The climate is challenging andthe demands are tremendous. But teachers are passionate about their studentsand the process of learning. Teachers also model life-long learning.

If we areexpecting our students to succeed, we need to fully support their teachers withthe resources and tools to meet that expectation. Quality workshops,comprehensive accessibility to new methods, media innovations, peer mentoring,a way to gauge and assess one’s own practice and learn from others are allessential. Additionally, the way a teacher develops his/her teaching practiceis best supported by the mentoring of those with experience and demonstratedsuccess of their own. The seasoned teacher shares and supports those new to thefield and the new teachers bring an enthusiasm that can be a “booster shot” forthe educator with many years in the classroom, along with new developments inthe field.

We are alsofaced with a change of the classroom environment that is the result of thetechnological/digital evolution of the past 10 – 15 years. Proficiency in corecontent is necessary but how we deliver the lessons has changed in many ways.The need to train and support teachers, even those who are fully confident withall aspects of digital media, so that teachers are able to guide and prepareour youth for the world they encounter on the other side of the wall is vitalto success as well.

In addition,with the current rhetoric in community and the political arena, communityengagement in our schools has never been more crucial. Funding sources beyondthe local, state, and federal funding for schools must be identified andmaximized. Allies among the citizens of our communities must be fostered toprotect our schools and their purpose, which is to develop our children intocompetent, informed, critical thinkers, citizens who will steer our communitiesin the years ahead, who will build and this nation as we move forward. It ismore than the scope and sequence of learning, it is the wonder of discovery thatteachers seed in their students. We need to also support that wonder and thirstin our teachers so they have the fuel they need to continue entering theirclassrooms with the enthusiasm than is transmitted to the young ones beforethem daily. The future sits in those desks. The future deserves the best andteachers deserve the ability to realize their own full capability as thefoundation for that future.

Our nation needsto return to trusting that teachers are actually the best gauges of learning intheir classrooms and that they are trained professionals who deserve respectfor their career choices. Teachers know how to teach and are successful whenconsistently supported with adequate funding, resources, environments, andprofessional development. Changing the rules every few years, imposing testingschedules that seriously limit instruction time, and limiting creative inquiryin the classroom create tension in both students and teachers, which I believeis at the heart of the perceived failure of our schools, not the tenureprocess. It is short-sighted to think that the current national movement is anadequate solution to the problem and that teachers are the cause. Not enough ofthe decision makers in public education or the politicians have the experienceof teaching within the constraints they create and legislate, nor do theyunderstand the pressures in today's classrooms and/or what a child at any agemay bring in with them from the home and the outer world. We must provideteachers the scaffold they need to shine and, in turn, for their students to doso. It takes each and every one of us to accomplish this lofty goal but Ibelieve it is possible.

2011-10-19T15:16:00.002-04:00

Another friend of mine from high school has recently connected with me via Facebook. For several days we have been sending let's catch up on the past four decades notes back and forth. It turns out that, after all this time, my friend has been living just 2 hours further west on I-90. Who knew?!

He asked a curious question about my work in the latest note: How old are the kids you teach writing? They are so all wired into their phones and texting. Is it hard to get past this?

My response: I tell them that I ask them to put the media away, especially the phones, because my thumbs start to itch when I see them texting and my phone is off. I text a lot. It is convenient and often efficient. Generally the students are quite surprised that I text. Ms. Popoff!!! You really text?!

It's true. In spite of my age and obvious corniness, I am a relentless texter. Students are extremely dependent on their phones and IPods. Instead of passing notes, they text. They also think we adults don't see what they are doing or are too old to understand. I like breaking their presumption with my reality. And then, sometimes the best way to engage the students in the poem is to ask them to "translate" it into text language. There is a different code for our kids to use to individualize and keep us out of their business. I guess mine was Pig Latin, though I never knew why it was called that.

Kids have to have their own code, their own connection, in all things, language, art, music, clothing, hair styles. Most outgrow rebellion, although I don't know that I have done so very well.

I can understand middle and high schoolers being self-focused but I often wonder why my college students are not more involved in politics. I think my peers' awareness has just a little bit to do with the fact that my generation, including my friend with whom I have been reunited, sat in front of a television to endure the Draft Lottery that would seal the fate of so many. It could literally be the difference between life and death. Sometimes I tell the story of the first Lottery and what it meant to all of my generation, as well as our parents. Perhaps it is that the Civil Rights era now seems like a successful mission to many who want to believe the myth of Post-Racial America. Perhaps I just ran with a unique crowd.

As I stated to my friend, we were unusual young people. The majority of our crew were artists in some medium or another and continued that journey into adulthood. Some of us are also educators in some capacity. We were movie addicts, we made art, we attended a lot of music events, we spent afternoons voluntarily at the Everson Museum of Art in downtown Syracuse. We had long hair then, both genders. Some of us still do.

And we are the first of the electronic age that morphed from television. We have cell phones and computers. We tweet. And we reunite on Facebook to look back at another generation that wants so much to be relevant and connect. A poem is no obstacle to me in that...

Another year...another cause for gratitude and reflection...

2011-10-16T12:41:00.002-04:00

Dear friends, family, colleagues...

I am not sure how many years I have maintained this birthday ritual but I believe it is at least 10. I have not saved all the letters, though I wish I had, but for at least a decade, I start my year by sipping a cup of perked coffee and writing to those who make my life worth living, before I step into the world or out of my jammies. I am almost superstitious about it. I must offer my gratitude for another year of experience, laughter, growth, expansion, and success in facing darkness, and the biggest of all, love.

This year has been the usual roller coaster. I have looked back and see that I have a life pattern of the rug being pulled out from under me on an average of every 3 years. Three years ago when I sent out my birthday missive, I had been laid off from Partners from Arts Education and had made the decision to pursue my career as an independent teaching artist, for which I had been building for the previous 8 or 9 years. It was about the Work more than a job. It was just months after the release of my second book, The Doom Weaver. I was eager for the growth of my career and optimistic regarding so many things and then it changed in the course of one sentence. At the time, Jerome Duerr said to me, "That book is very courageous. If you can write that book, you can do anything." He advised me that many people discouraged him from starting his studio and pursuing his passion and true artist self. He said, "This is America. What's the worst that could happen...you get another job." Jerome encouraged me to be authentic and true to myself and indicated that he, who does not know me as well as some of you, believed that I can manifest my highest good.

I made it through these 3 years as I have most of my life, sometimes with sweat and others with the help of those close and understanding, but I pursued the path that I had created and, in the process, did good work in schools and with those I share my knowledge. This year, I complete my solar return with the rug yanked again due to the economy but my commitment to this career, albeit unconventional, is true. This work in education, this work with language and all its power, is what I know I was born to offer. I get so frustrated along the way but I know that I have value to offer and I am nothing if not persistent. I pray that the outcomes I have dreamed continue to unfold and that not only do I "just keep doing the good work" (as Sue Stonecash tells me year after year) but that the potential for stability and security finally unfolds.

This past year has given me many blessings, as is always the case. The most prominent achievement is the publication of Our Difficult Sunlight. This is the effort for which I am most proud in this life thus far. I love the two collections of poetry I have published and am eagerly preparing for more books of the poems I have inside me. But the purpose of ODS, what it offers to others so they can strive for greater success in their own work, this is my true intention and I hope that this book reaches many of those who will benefit. I am particularly grateful to my collaborator, Quraysh Ali Lansana, in this journey. We are both highly invested in this project and its opportunity and now endeavor to bring it to the attention of every teacher, every artist educator, anyone who can use it and gain ways of engaging in our art form as well as helping others to read, to connect, to learn and grow as humans. Lofty ambitions but I am always a bit in the clouds. I believe in both altitude and dreams.

I must also say I am grateful to all of the publishers who have believed in my work to include me as one of their authors: Hale Mary Press, Main Street Rag Publishers, Puddinghouse/Kattywompus, and Teachers & Writers Collaborative. What else can I say but thank you.

This past year has also returned some key people to my life after many many years, particularly my dear friend and lifeline when I was a teen, Barbara Wright, and my long lost cousin Christine Kelly. There have been other reunions as well but these two have given me back a piece of myself that is difficult to explain in mere words. Thank you both...and thanks to the others who I have been able to share time and laughter, including Deb Rahalski, other Nottingham 40th reunion friends, to name just a few.

I know that when I reveal my fears, it freaks some out so I will just say I have been given pause to question a great deal this summer. I have been somber these past few weeks leading up to my birthday. Something about 58 is unsettling. Time is flying at a velocity that is confusing. I see the horizon of my elder years and there is so very much to do. I have three children's books in stages of development. I have two collections of poetry unwrapping themselves. I have the food memoir collaboration with my dear Linda Moore rejuvenating. And I have been very committed to my blog. ODS taught me that I enjoy the personal essay, writing in prose. I have been guided by my friend and mentor Dale Davis to look at how that is presenting as the foundation for another book. And I journal regularly. I am feeling an urgency to complete these works, to keep moving forward, to proceed and be bold, as Phil Alexander advised a few years ago, a fine mantra that I share often.

My community of friends and family have had hardship as well as delight. There have been weddings to celebrate and losses to mourn. We have welcomed new lives, we have lost dear friends. I have a beautiful fish tank that was Bob Gibbons' and now I tend the water community in honor of the life he lived. There has been illness and there has been laughter. I have witnessed friends make changes that will keep them closer to their own missions and intentions and I celebrate them. I have seen my close ones and colleagues rise beyond pain, fear, loss, the economy to live with integrity and honesty, to heal themselves and be forces of healing and joy for others. I am grateful for you and the models you present. I hope to be a person in whom you can confide and upon whom you can rely.

This is a deeply troubled time in our nation. No matter what your personal politics, it is undeniable. I harken back to my teens and the climate feels the same. The discord, the fear, the frustration, the marches. I feel we all must pay attention and strive to know the full story of what is happening. We must vote, we must be informed, and we must talk to others, even those who disagree with us. Too much is at stake for complacency. Nuff said here...

I am in the sixth decade in this body consciousness. I pray for continued good health. I pray for the wellness of my brain also. I pray for my community and my beloveds, all of you. I miss those whom I have lost throughout the years and I light candles in their honor. The list is long and it is sobering that I have exceeded the lifespan of two parents and one brother. But it is what it is and I live each day for them as well. I especially beam light on behalf of the next generation of nieces and nephews, both of my immediate family and those whom I have adopted and have adopted me. My Anna and her brother James, the Goodnough girls, my Maxwell and my Joseph, Adelle (my Delly Bell), the Gainer/Bradford crew, Ms. Maddie and her new brother Karson, the Pashley brothers, Team Lansana, Juliette and Brittany, the three beautiful Horwitz sisters on the west coast, Rosatis, Curdts, Missy, the Wentworth sisters, Kristen, Natalie, and Jonathan Crawford, Dylan and Jesse (and now Jesse's son) and every single child or teen I have ever been blessed with the chance to teach and offer poetry, may your way be golden with light, may you know yourselves well and may the universe support you in your dreams. And mostly, may I be blessed to witness it for many more years, decades...this is a miracle, this opportunity of life. We have no way of truly explaining any of it but by some Grace, we are here to live it. Let us not waste a moment.

It is time to wrap this up and send it out. This is also the first year I will use social media to share my thoughts, so I am sure to reach every person for whom I am grateful and by whom I am supported and blessed. My phone is ringing with texts from loved ones sending birthdaygrams. I have to get to the Zen Center to write a poem about fall trees with the children. Then maybe to dig in my garden and spread some of my birthday mulch from Linda M. So I offer my wish for all of you, may you have a blessed day and may your path be cleared of obstacles, illuminated with wisdom and opportunity.

With love and a heart full of gratitude, I thank each of you for making my life worthwhile and joyous. I may know you just a little bit. I may have walked parallel with you for ages. You all matter to me and create the substance of my existence. As Ms. Lucille Clifton advised me, "I choose Joy because I am capable of it, and there are those who are not."

Namaste and ASE,
g.

Dumbing Down the Conversation

2011-10-14T23:20:00.003-04:00

We don't have to search long for a mirror to reflect the trickle-up effect of what has been happening in our educational system in the past 10 years; ask a professor. They can tell you.

Over the past few years, I have spoken with a number of colleagues teaching at the university level about the current academic capacity of students. Those who have been teaching for a number of years recognize a student body far less able to meet the standards of just 10 years ago. The textbook count that can be assigned has decreased. Literacy skills have diminished. This is not just among students who come from disadvantaged environments, this is across the board. They also believe that discipline and personal responsibility is lower in many students (in fact, one of my friends, now retired, told me of a student who explained that she was consistently late for class because her mother hadn't been calling to wake her up).

The evidence of diminished capacity is most apparent, I believe, in student writing. The failure to master basic composition skills presents well before college. On many occasions, I have not been able to get a satisfactory answer from 9th and 10th graders to the question, "What is a noun?" It is sobering. At the college level, when students cannot manage tense agreement, do not know how to punctuate or spell, one must question who failed them? Although I am an ardent advocate for teachers, we cannot deny that there is a problem. Actually, teachers are the first to recognize it. There is a progression in which teachers at one level have to instruct students who have been passed forward from lower grades with deficits that impede success as they advance along the chain. The bigger problem is that they will be judged for the response to the assessments that these students must take. There is a great deal of anxiety in schools in the current climate.

One of my colleagues teaches at a state university in another part of the country. He was assigned a sophomore composition class in his fall semester load. Nearly 2 months into the school year, after offering students the ability to rewrite one assignment because their papers were so terrible, then still not being able to grade above a C on any of the revisions and many not even achieving that, he announced that he was going to abandon the syllabus they had been following, effective immediately.

He told his class that they would use the remainder of the semester to learn basic writing skills that somehow they had never developed. I asked how they responded and he replied first with the word "somber;" then he told me that many of the students seemed grateful, even relieved. I imagine that the tension had been palpable until this bold response to the immediate need.

He also needed to discuss this decision with his department chair. He was concerned, unsure whether he would be supported in electing to embrace the immediate need or would be required to tow the line of the administration's expectation for the course offering. He was choosing to honor the students and stop ignoring the obvious. They are unprepared for the work being asked of them. If he does not intervene on their behalf, they will be unprepared for success in both academia and business going forward. He has the ability to turn that tide and will do what he can to share his knowledge.

This is the kind of bold choice our educators have to make every day, from pre-K through graduate school. I know teachers at all grades who shut their doors and teach the way they know students need and from which they will benefit. Sometimes they fear reprisal, but they would rather educate than drill. These teachers' students often manage to accommodate the pressures of the assessment system. And then there are many good teachers who are hamstringed, who have been disempowered by administrations and district requirements, unable to adequately impart the scholastic knowledge as well as life skills that they know their charges need, often demanded to deliver scripted units of study from one educational program or another in which their district has invested.

I teach one wacky little single-credit course at a local university every fall, sort of an arts enrichment seminar for honors students. Even with these students, frequently quite driven, I often find the quality of writing lower than my expectation. It is surprising. In fact, one year my evaluations reflected that my students thought I was asking for too much in my writing assignments. This course has no required reading, no research, just a weekly personal reflection of up to two double-spaced pages, one report on an informational interview of at least five pages, and a final personal reflection, five-page minimum. I had to adjust.

But, in defense of young people and their teachers, I also see work by poets who do not know the difference between it's and its, or lightening and the marvel of a summer night, lightning. These are writers who pride themselves in their skill with language. And don't get me started on the typos and sloppy grammar on web-based news outlets or on news squawk network trailers and headers, much less television series' scripts. It is so much important that they beat everyone to the consumer with the headline that there is no consciousness in or even time for adequate proofreading. It is insulting to me but then I wonder who else besides me even notices? Who notices when some celebrity or newscaster says "Her and I were..." either?

I keep thinking that 21st century American life has become a sequel combination of three films: The Truman Show, The Candidate, and Idiocracy. Frankly, I find it not only rather sad but also embarrassing. The most pathetic thing is that not enough of our politicians care deeply or take a stand for education. Others are fully sold on reform policy that is not good education. We are in trouble. If language is power, as I truly believe, we are rapidly becoming a nation of wimps.

Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

2011-10-13T22:23:00.000-04:00

It has been 12 years since I created an exit strategy from my job as office administrator with an environmental engineering consulting team to become a teaching artist, to dedicate my life to my passion and identity as Poet.

I started out in afterschool programs, although I did have some teaching experience with adults and a few forays into working with school-aged children. Afterschool is where most of us cut our teeth as artist educators. It is definitely the "school of hard knocks." I made a ton of mistakes but I know I did a lot that was right too. Some of those students are now in their senior year, if not graduated. At least, I pray they graduated. I cannot be certain.

I also coached for the local chapter of the NAACP ACT-SO program throughout the 90s. Many of those young poets I mentored are now 30. They are adults with meaningful lives and I am so very proud of them all. Some are teachers, some are entrepreneurs, one is a lawyer, some are parents themselves, and some still write, have a love of poetry. This is heartwarming.

As for those young writers I met in Hillbrook Detention Center over the three or four summers I taught there, I have not the same optimism but I can pray some of those teens made a change in their lives. One is dead. I think of him frequently. I know several others had additional run-ins with the justice system.

I do not teach for sweeping outcomes. I teach for the moment and with a hope to sow seeds. If I am successful, I will affect some sort of change, even if for an hour.

Approximately 10 years ago, I had the great fortune of connecting with the arts-in-education community fostered by the New York State Council on the Arts. This was in the glory days of NYSCA AIE. The statewide roundtable network was being built, the grant programs were well-funded and growing, the conversations were vital and charged with excitement. I discovered many people such as me who wanted to combine their art forms, their belief in our youth, and their own ability to connect, to bring something significant and supportive of teachers and students into classrooms. There were researchers, artists, seasoned educators, parents, cultural organization administrators all focused on the power of the arts in learning, all looking to further develop young minds.

This was a large community of educators of every ilk sharing, working, creating, building on 20+ years of foundation in developing a craft, a career path, and a professional field. It was where I had hoped I would land when I took that leap from the day job, among likeminded people from and with whom I could learn, create, and grow.

There were powerful meetings, terrific initiatives, and a network within the practice of learning and teaching that was vital and inspiring. I met many who I admire greatly and I learned a great deal about many subjects and pedagogies. I made some lifelong friends. The network expanded to and connected with the national field where there was even more evidence of how the braid of learning and the arts could be expressed with success and enthusiasm.

I entered the AIE community at the beginning of this new century...as NCLB was formulating and being passed. The waters soon rippled, early signs of the storm ahead. Like the Gulf when the spinning rage is still far off shore but the tides hint at what is coming.

Politics, funding slashes, the deterioration of so much eroded this movement. The network has been splintered and cast out. Arts councils have been defunded or significantly cut in many states. Key agencies and cultural organizations have been forced to abandon their programs and turn the keys in the locks. Some of us have landed in other nonprofits, others have started independent practices and consulting businesses. We have lost the core that created reasons to be together to plan and implement innovative educational programming and to spur each other with the shared knowledge.

Nationally we witness that our teachers are being demonized. Our children and teens are suffering. Higher education is recognizing the full impact of this erosion. The basic preparation our schools were providing for future generations to take on the task of living a life with stability and independence is no longer possible. Arts and cultural organizations throughout the nation have also withered.

The strength in numbers among creative, competent educators has been weakened by breaking up the network and splitting us off from each other. Dissent is being stirred up within the field of education by whomever is holding the power now (i.e., pitting public schools against charter schools, Race for the Top state-against-state competition for funding to support school districts, etc.).

It is only one part of the way we are failing as a nation and why I feel so much the way I did in 1968. The difference is that I am 58 rather than 15 so I am even more frustrated and horrified, especially because I have seen the costs before and do not understand why we are backsliding so steeply and rapidly. I understand my father's fear when he was in such conflict between his morals vs. his employment during the Viet Nam War. I share his distrust of the political climate. I see why he was threatening to move us all to Sweden in 1968 if George Wallace were to be elected; how he knew Nixon was a seriously bad choice as well. He saw the clouds accumulating along the horizon, the heat lightning, but he was also the son of a Marxist so he had been watching the weather for a long time.

Tonight the AFL-CIO is mobilizing even more humans to stand up against it all in Wall Street, to refuse the eviction. The Senate says NO to putting Americans to work. Peddlers of profit are masquerading as education reformers while they peddle books and charge huge fees for speaking engagements. Banks are moving into charging us for using the debit cards upon which they spent the last 20 years orchestrating our dependence. The news talking heads are squawkin' loud and sometimes sayin' nothin' while Herman Cain speaks for the Right (RIP James Brown...I'm glad you and my dad are both missing this).

I can find no logic in the current political agenda that continues to weaken our citizenry in the interests of profit and/or power but that is where we seem to be. We've been through this before. Complacency must not be accepted. We must be aware, we must continue to educate ourselves and others. We all depend on it.

When Is It Too Soon to Tell the Truth?

2011-10-08T11:42:00.000-04:00

Quraysh and I presented at the Urban Word NY annual Preemptive Education Conference last week. During our workshop, there were several moments in which the questions and conversation took us a bit off the agenda to support the teachable moment. Teaching is a performance art and the teachable moment is always the element that one must examine in the instant, assess, and respond quickly. Do we veer from the lesson plan for the engaged and pertinent discussion? And how do we get back to the focus?

This is always the case in authentic education. The teachable moment is that opportunity to maximize the engagement of the students and to fill out the lesson plan with vital responses to the learning as it happens. But if you have goals and need to fulfill the expectation for that unit of study, there is a dance of balance and truth.

In this instance at the conference, we were discussing the poem I love to teach to any age group, Nikki Giovanni's "Knoxville, Tennessee."

As we discussed Ms. Giovanni's word choices, there were some fascinating comments. For instance, as the poem celebrates the luxury of going barefoot in summer, one participant who teaches in L.A. said that his students would not see that as a positive. He further explained that going barefoot would not only be unsafe and no child would do so willingly but if they were barefooted, it would be due to poverty and probably subject them to ridicule. It would be an embarrassment rather than a delight. This gave me another opportunity to see how geography alone will affect inference but also how poetry may provide alternative reflections on experience.

At the point that we were discussing the word "okra" from the early part of the poem, I shared a slightly truncated version of my narrative of the journey of okra through the Middle Passage to the North American continent. This story itself was initiated through a teachable moment 2 years ago, when a class of 6th grade students and I were discussing the poem and I was informing them about the vegetable. One student asked where it came from and the teacher started to research it from her computer as we worked. This is when we discovered the West African origins and my imagination took the reins. Since that cold January day, I have woven the tale and personalized the experience in a narrative that starts us out as members of a village on an ordinary day 400 years ago, and presupposes some brave person who was kidnapped from the garden chores with a pod of okra in hand. It is tender and horrible at the same time. But it is a tale of courage and fortitude that I believe must be imagined.

Often when I have the technology, I also have slides of okra, from plant to images of dishes that include okra (gumbo, jambalaya, fried okra, etc.). I also show images of the diagrams of the ships loaded with humans side by side, pictures of the slave castles of Ghana, the Door of No Return. I have since learned that there was a Door of No Return on the East African coast where enslaved humans were shipped to the Mideast for servitude as well. We often know only a portion of our global history.

There were two key questions during the conference workshop after the story: 1) what is the youngest age that this story may be shared, and 2) is it permissible for someone not of African descent to even do so?

My belief is that there is no age too early in the school setting to tell the story, but that it is important to tailor the story to the level of understanding and sensitivity. Telling the story to a 3rd grader demands a different tone than telling the story to a high schooler. But the rote understanding of the slave trade that is shrink wrapped for each February unit of study of Black History does little to drive home the horror of the Transatlantic Slave Trade or of the notion of slavery itself, particularly in view of the fact that slavery does still exist on the planet. I recently read a statistic that there is still an African slave trade that numbers 30,000+ annually. There are slaves in Asia, there are slaves in the U.S., and there are sex slaves in Dubai as well as worldwide. Women, in particular, understand that slavery is far from extinct.

So we have to be sensitive in the delivery but we must inform if we are to be true educators, especially if we keep a mission of social justice. I do not think we can withhold the truth and still be honest. But we can be honest in sharing the truth in ways that builds understanding and empathy; in this, we chip away at the divisive nature of racism and isolation.

The second question is a harder one to address. I have had a similar conversation with the poet Martha Collins regarding her book, Blue Front, which addresses lynchings in America is a stunning and stark manner. Her quandary (and even the objections of others at times) was did she have the agency as a White woman to address this topic, one that is so rooted in the African American experiences of racism and terrorism that results?

The person asking the question of me said that she did not feel she would have the right to tell the story, particularly not to turn it into a first person narrative, because she is White. I started the story out in second person plural, with a creative visualization prompt of "imagine we are all African, in our village on a warm sunny morning..." At some point, well into the journey, already on the plantation, for some unknown reason in the moment, I switched the pronoun to "I" when it came time to plan the okra seeds that had been clung to throughout the horrid transfer from one continent to another, during which each of us had lost our status and identities as human.

I don't know if I have done this before but I did last Saturday. It was about one person taking action to plant those small seeds that would provide the taste and sustenance of home, and remind us of and root us in a time when we were fully human, rather than diminished to chattel. A food that keeps the truth within our hearts.

But my points are these:

1) we have to remember that this history of slavery is not just for Black America, it is the history we all carry one way or another as a nation so we must be familiar with it, own it, take responsibility to change the course, especially now;

2) the only way to resolve the issues of racism is to create an understanding, an empathy in all people so that the actions that result from racism are no longer tolerable.

We must be able to internalize the horror to combat it. And it takes each of us to do so. If my taking the character to heart and sharing it means that the 6th grade blonde girl in Watkins Glen, NY, cries from the realization of the truth, then so be it. I have the agency to do so. And so it did happen one morning last January. That child may find it very difficult to tolerate racism much less commit acts that harken it in the future because she was able to picture herself within the shackles herself. I would do the same in sharing the horror of the Holocaust of Nazi Germany, had Anne Frank not done so already.

There may be some who do not agree, and I would not take a story that another has developed to use as my own, particularly of a cultural heritage outside of my own. You will not ever catch me attempting to do "Signifying Monkey," though I relish every moment I hear a storyteller or griot launch into it. But the story of okra is also a part of me, that descendent of North Carolinian farmers who did not own slaves but who discovered the delicate taste of a vegetable rooted in the Motherland of all humanity. So I will tell it and I will remember what courage is, a courage that I have not had to draw upon but I admire greatly.

And I will continue to ask children to picture themselves in a West African village on a sunny day, feet warmed by the hot dust beneath them, that moment when everything was intact and serene, before the kidnappers...before we were forced to overstand brutality.

Maximizing Conference Time - The Task at Hand

2011-10-07T09:18:00.000-04:00

This past weekend, my coauthor Quraysh Ali Lansana, and I presented a workshop based on some of the pedagogy in Our Difficult Sunlight at the Preemptive Education Conference in NYC. Thanks to Michael Cirelli and the Urban Word NY staff for the invitation and the event itself. And thanks to those who chose our session among the great offerings that day. We appreciated the talent and commitment of all who were in the circle.

During our workshop, we aimed to offer three different elements of our approach that could be adapted and used in the classroom by the participants upon their return. Quraysh opened with his sculpting activity of Gwendolyn Brooks' timeless statement, "We Real Cool." In this, seven volunteers work with him to quickly stage a performance of the poem of just 24 words that speaks volumes to the circumstance of drop-outs and losing one's way, one's motivation. The sad truth is that this poem is even more relevant now than when Ms. Brooks wrote it nearly 60 years ago.

I then replicated my poem-as-video-game method for investigating a poem in a tiered examination that reveals context and drives inference by repeated reading, listening, and discussing the language from different vantage points. This metaphor correlating the experience of a poem with the process of playing a video game has proven to be very successful in my own practice and it is a flexible method of inquiry that encourages engagement, as does the sculpting activity. Both of these can be adapted to any poem, any group of students, any age.

The third portion of our workshop involved Ms. Brooks' construct of verse journalism, the poetry of events and news items, leading to poetic statements of not just awareness but social justice, and Q's interpretation of his community awareness scaffold for creating a poem. In this, by taking conscious reflective steps to identify the smells, sounds, characters, physical elements, and personal connection to one's neighborhood and relying upon these elements for inspiration; the prompts encourage a student to look beyond the expected, beyond habit, to examine the details of his/her world, even to identify beauty and pride where others may see despair. It is quite powerful and yields personal statements that are often quite moving.

There are inherent flaws in the conference model but this was a good conference nonetheless. As is generally the case, there is never enough time to do everything on the agenda. The goal of getting as much as possible squeezed into a single session is daunting. But we did offer three opportunities: one, a kinesthetic connection to a poem; the second, a deliberate method of reading poetry in a way that breaks down the barriers of self doubt and comprehension to empower readers to trust their interpretations; and a third that provides a platform for a panoramic view of one's own world that is rich with imagery and sensory awareness.

Although Q and I know that there is so much more that each of these components could have been presented with much more depth if there had been more time, it is our hope that the individuals who selected our workshop over the others available to them in that session were fed well. We expect that the educators and teaching artists who attend any of our professional development sessions recognize the many opportunities for adaptation of our suggestions, rather than attempting a rote replication. We are only modeling potential based on our own experience and, often, our successes in the classroom. We give these prompts and activities to others so they can also witness success and keep the art of poetry alive.

Language as a Weapon...the Political Spin & the Skewing of "Entitlements"

2011-09-30T08:51:00.002-04:00

Remember the harried call for "the moral majority?" How about the clarion for "family values?" Or how Spiro Agnew called the left "effete, intellectual snobs?" The tone of the rhetoric of the right for nearly 2 decades was to accuse the left of violating the values of the American Family.

I have been asking a question for a few months now: why is it not "family values" to expect and support a citizenry that is

Nourished;
Housed;
Healthy;
Educated;
Employed and able to earn a viable living; and/or
Protected in their elder years?

Why is asking that our citizens can expect that which was promised for the entire Baby Boom now the tool of politicians who are spending millions, and eventually billions, of dollars to be elected? Why is the language so skewed and that bias is to demonize Americans for desiring, expecting, and striving for the American Dream? I just do not understand.

Language is a tool...a weapon...a volatile premise. I often ask high school students to tell me names of famous people who have changed the world through the effective use of language. Their list is comprehensive. I believe that I blogged some responses in previous posts. They also understand that there are negative changes that have been wrought through effective language and skilled speech writers and orators.

We have a field of politicians waging verbal war and not addressing the very pressing issues of the day. One that really bugs me is the notion of "entitlements." The implication from the Right is that Americans are asking for something they do not deserve rather than being given title to the funds that they have deposited into the system since they first started working. And the press seizes that word and supports its usage from all sides of the fences. Just as the media supported the sanitized term "ethnic cleansing." Every election and every administration delivers at least one term, one word or phrase that then becomes the lexicon through media enforcement. Remember "weapons of mass destruction" that started with Clinton and ran rampant in the Bush years. How about "embolden?" When was the last time you used that word before it coming from the White House press room during the Iraq war that has helped bankrupt our nation? How about "Not on my watch?" These are now commonalities because the White House, at some point in time, spoke them and the media seized the moment and tattooed them into the public consciousness. How about "maverick?" And the bold claim of the "Silent Majority?"

Language is precious and beautiful. Language is brutal and damning. It is both a weapon and a tool, and it is a way to "embolden" as well as enslave.

Our nation is in a weakened state. We must be ever conscious of the tone and scope of our words. And we must regain our own legitimate self-respect and power as a society. I am not sure how. It seems insurmountable. But I know that the current rhetoric is not going to do it. I know that the bullying of the right and the left of each other will not accomplish it. Breaking the unions, vilifying teachers, attacking those who work in public services, and defunding the many valuable programs that have made the quality of life in our nation what it has been until very recently (and is currently highly threatened by "reform") will not achieve it.

I also know that being silent will be the worst option.

Reclaiming Self after Slipping through the Cracks

2011-09-23T12:56:00.000-04:00

Last Friday, just one week ago, over a great looooong lunch at Sparkytown in my hometown with a new colleague/friend, Yvonne Murphy, I made a life-changing decision. I am going to finish my B.A.

I declare this publicly so I cannot back out.

I have been declaring it all week to friends and colleagues. I want this decision to be a part of my body consciousness and I want to move beyond the roadblock I have negotiated my entire adult life.

I recognize and own that I have also accepted and even created the roadblock. Other times I have contemplated returning to college and getting the degree and it has usually been lack of funds that I have allowed to stop me. It was partially that factor that caused me to leave school in the first place. But now, 3 weeks before I turn 58 (just 2 years shy of 60!), with the loss of my major contract and no solid work ahead (or so it seems this morning), unable to even place my hat in the ring for many jobs I know in which I could be fully effective due to this perceived deficit, I can no longer avoid this completion.

I have written before of why I am so committed to my students and to the work in schools, especially the disenfranchised, the overlooked, the undervalued and insecure; I am them. Care to see who some of those young people may be as adults...here I am. And honestly, it is so easy for educators, psychologists, sociologists, politicians, etc., to focus on the youth of color as the ones who are slipping through and away. So much of the discussion is focused on urban education and urban life as the cauldron of neglect. In fact, it is often. I overstand the plight of poverty and how it is statistically weighted in the Black citizenry of our nation, and fully recognize the struggles of Latino/Hispanic Americans as well. I must also point out that we rarely even see indigenous people represented on any PowerPoint pie chart of the poor and disenfranchised. But that also becomes a marginalization and stereotype that people can use to keep their assumptions about people of color intact, to perpetuate the stereotypes, as well as continue to allow many others to be faceless and failing.

It is so easy to identify "these kids" as single-parent children, or children whose parents are negligent, abusive, drug users or drunks as well as other than White. Yet, some of those same traits also occur in cul-de-sacs of McMansions. Another consideration: there are caring parents who are poor as well. Sure, the incidents of broken homes and suffering families may be skewed toward people living in poverty but I see these same conditions in rural school districts of predominantly White students, as well as parents who are anything but present regarding their children in suburbia. I actually believe that most children are at risk in America. Look at the divorce rate. Look at the spread of addiction and substance abuse across all socio-economic strata. Look at the decimation of our system of education and the conversation in America today on the floors of Congress, at town hall meetings, and on the news squawks.

Teachers are often the first line of defense for a child in need. But then, can we place all that responsibility on them? And are they always able to manage recognizing the signs? Teachers did not see that I was a solitary child, that I felt completely outside of my peers, that I had tremendous responsibility for my siblings, and after my mother died, all that was magnified significantly. Guidance counselors and adults did not see that I was in a desperate depression. College professors did not see I was at risk for dropping out and barely hanging on. I fit an image of smart young White kid and I acted well for adults.

After I left school, with no emotional support from key adults, such as both my fathers, I slammed through life like a pinball. I have a multitude of jobs in my history and a long list of attempts at alternate careers, often stymied by my lack of a diploma. Ironically, most people now who know my work or collaborate with me assume I have graduate level degrees. I am a graduate of the school of learn it as you go and learn it well to compete. But I lose out too often. I have made a series of poor choices. Other times I have just been stopped for other reasons and family matters that took precedent in my forward movement.

In the meantime, I have also accomplished a long list of amazing feats. I need to be more focused on that tally than what I have not achieved or where I believe I have failed. I find I am not always my best judge.

Now is the time for me to accept that I am my own obstacle in the lack of degree. A diploma is not an assessment of my worth. It is just a way to qualify my knowledge, talent, and skill for the system in which we operate. It is a necessary prop in a society and a generation that has lost a value for self-education and skilled trades. It causes me great concern when I hear all this national conversation about the press for college. But that is a topic for another post, I imagine.

I was frightened off from meeting this accomplishment over and over for the past four decades. Now is the time to stop believing that I am not worthy, that it is too hard, that there is no money for me to do it. I have $150 to deposit in my checking account today...all the money I have. I stripped out my very modest IRA to pay bills this summer. I somehow made the mortgage payment and last month's car payment last week. I can pay another bill that will stop one of the incessant phone calls from a creditor or another with this check.

I am teaching a couple of courses and I have a small part-time job. I am hoping for another opportunity for employment. Next week I present with my collaborator and creative partner at the Preemptive Education Conference in NYC, then on to workshop with students who will be working in New Haven Schools and offer a reading of our poetry at the University of New Haven. We will sell some books as well.

Then I will come home, make arrangements for my transcripts from three different colleges, if they can find them in the vaults, and sit down to chart my course to my college diploma. That meeting should probably happen just around the time of my birthday. I can't imagine a better gift to myself.

And, I will continue my work...and continue recognizing myself in the faces of the young Black man in the back row, the freckle-faced girl huddled near the window, the Mexican 4th grader who loves to write and cannot stop, the boy who sings all the time and thinks no one will ever like him, the child in every desk, the teen behind every hip posture, the faces of those who just need to know that there are adults who believe that they are marvelous just because they are alive.

Today I Wear My Poet Hat

2011-09-20T12:52:00.000-04:00

There is a lot of pressure when self-employed. The scramble for work, the constant follow-up, the volunteerism, the press to market and generate income, the bills and deadlines are enough to make for constant anxiety. Sometimes even panic.

My poetry is taking second chair to all the other needs at this time. I am getting a little itchy but other priorities are leaving four cycles of poems dormant in my binder. But I am one to take my time with a poem anyway. I described it today as "worrying a poem to the bone." I am not satisfied with the first draft; in fact, I am rarely satisfied with the tenth draft. I am one of those poets for whom the act of honing, revising, dallying with the image and language is a joy as well as a vital obligation.

As an editor for many years, I read hundreds of submissions annually. Now I am making the final decisions for a poetry journal. This is rather daunting. I know what it feels like to get the "not this time" letter in the mail so I have empathy for the human on the other side of the SASE.

As an artist educator and workshop facilitator, I witness how difficult it is for someone to translate one's own experience and emotion to the page, and then to take the step to place that work in front of a reader, much less to throw it into the arena of publishing and, thus, critical judgment.

There is so much space between the moment a person commits their humanness to the page and the competition for pages in a journal. Editors have to consider that there is a tender spot in each writer's heart that yielded the poem we are screening, critiquing, accepting, or sending back.

On the other hand, the poet has to remember how many people are out there, sitting at their computer or over their notepads, pen in hand, creating something significant to themselves. They have to reflect on how many poets are taking their five poems of the moment and placing them in the mail for consideration. The competition is keen. We can never underestimate the sheer numbers.

So often, I feel that poems we consider for publication are a few steps short of their own capacity. This is disconcerting. The push to publish sometimes blinds a poet. The delight in creating a poem may often veil our eyes from the opportunities to shift the poem from competent, or even good, to marvelous. So will the desire to see our names and verse in print.

I continue to ask, "What is the rush?!" Certainly the contest and reading period deadlines are motivators but why not sit with the poem a little longer and notice that a word has been repeated three or four times, with no true purpose to the repetition. Or notice that the whole first stanza is not only editorializing and telling the reader what the poem to follow is about, but that it is burying a spectacular line that would open the work up with true panache, and thereby engaging the reader immediately in the experience rather than narrating it? Or perhaps the poet can take the time to proofread the submission and avoid the sloppy typos that shed a callous light on their professionalism? There will always be another reading period or contest. In fact, the plethora of such is diminishing the whole and making the whole business entirely too confusing.

Now I will say that I am honored to be in a national community of poets and to serve them with my efforts, as are my colleagues who work together diligently to publish our journal. I admire the commitment of our entire staff, all of whom (including me) are volunteers.

I also want to say that often I contact a poet whose poem is so close to stellar to suggest edits that will take it to its fullest potential, based on comments as the poem circulates through our ranks. The poets are always gracious and the usual comment is, "Wow, thanks. I did not even notice that."

But that not noticing is another problem. We are charged with the responsibility to notice by our nature and post as Poet. If we do not give the poem ample attention to observe the blemishes and missed opportunities, we are failing the poem, the potential audience, and ourselves. Every syllable should count. Every syllable should earn its way into the piece. And every syllable should sing.

We also have to remember that we are limited thematically by the essence of human nature and the human condition. Although we may be feeling the excruciating pain of a parent with a critical disease, the heartbreak of loss or abuse, the joy of a newborn child, the bliss of a bird in flight, so are thousands of other people who may be poets as well. We are motivated by our own pains and pleasures to create art. But we then are well advised to step away from the creation emotionally and take a good hard look from the points of craft and uniqueness. How have we described that circumstance or individual in ways that make our own voice and vision unlike any other?

This is the finer element of making a poem and making it our own. It is also the key to more publication. Lastly, it is the path to fullness and satisfaction as a writer and creative being.

Many Talents to Admire...Always Something to Learn

2011-09-13T22:31:00.001-04:00

A few posts before this, I spoke of my two young nephews. They constantly amaze me, just as their older cousins always have. Their older cousins are now adults with blossoming professional careers, one a few hours away, another on the other side of the country. I have so many reasons to be proud of these humans of the next generation of my family. I want every opportunity to spend time with any of them.

This past weekend, my 9-year old nephew spent the weekend with me while his parents traveled for a wedding. We had a great time in this last morsel of summer. He has a love of artistic things, not the least of which, drawing. We spent all day Saturday on my back deck, making bookmarks for family and friends, and he drew incessantly. We made cookies. He schooled me regarding the best selections of Nick On Demand. We never did get the WII working with my old-school television.

Meanwhile, my 12-year old nephew was a few miles away, helping his mom in a remarkable way; he was replacing a broken garbage disposal! He has a natural talent for mechanical things. I would never know where to start with something like that but there he was, under the sink, wrench in hand, helping my sister-in-law puzzle through a plumbing dilemma. She was so proud of his ability to parse out the task as they partnered to take control of this critical home repair. I have the text photo to document his skill!

My younger nephew is chatty like me. His cousin is quiet and introspective. I find I am quieter when I am with him than I would be on my own. With his cousin, I join in the blow-by-blow narration of the day. These boys each have strengths and assets that I admire. They also both "get" me, in their own ways. I "get" them as well. They show me what their generation is experiencing and they remind me that an authentic life is all any of us should aspire to live.

They both also remind me that humor is a balm.

This weekend, on the 10th anniversary of 9/11, they reminded me to stay present. They reflect purpose and joy. They help me be more of the woman I am, and without even knowing it, they fuel the poet in me, as well as the educator.

My youngest nephew and I headed to the zoo on Sunday, leaving the TV coverage of the sadness behind; he is unburdened by any of those painful memories. He was in charge of the camera. We stopped to admire a cherry red 60's vintage Chevy Impala. We stood on the edge of the parking lot high above the skyline of Syracuse, observing it like a panoramic photo. We made jokes and engaged in some clever word play. This guy has a great vocabulary, I have discovered.

As we walked toward the entrance, my boy queried, "Aunt Georgia, is your whole life a poem?"

I stopped for one step, started walking again, and quietly replied, with a smile in my tone, "Why yes, now that you ask; I guess my whole life is a poem. Thanks for noticing."

Writing Is Writing Is Writing

2011-09-10T23:00:00.001-04:00

I shall be frank. It has been a tough summer. Nearly all the work I projected did not manifest. Budget travesties in the current climate of education and in the face of a horrid economy have meant that, once again, the rug has been pulled out from under me. I am running on fumes and prayers to get through while work is very slowly presenting itself over the next few months. The career of an independent teacher educator is not for the faint of heart.

In the face of all of this, I facilitated other poets/writers throughout the summer, both in the two workshops I taught and in the work I do as managing editor of the Comstock Review. I also wrote a great deal, although not much poetry. But I have been journaling quite regularly and extensively, keeping my gratitude journal nearly daily, and working on my accomplishment journal. I have committed seriously to this blog as well. I have posted twice as much this year thus far as either of the two previous since I started this journey in cyberspace. My readership has grown and I hope I have be of service in sharing my experiences and reflections.

I am quite accustomed to the quiet times when my poems hibernate. I have been enjoying the freedom of prose with the counterbalance that blogland boundaries create. I am examining the world through a different lens when I write for this page; however, I am actively writing, consistently reaching out, communicating with the world, expressing my joys, frustrations, and sometimes even righteous indignation.

In 5 weeks, I will turn 58. It is crazy and a bit terrifying. I am feeling a remarkable urgency to get the words in my head and heart onto the page and before people to whom they carry meaning and message. I hope that the muses take me back to verse soon but until then, I have my keyboard and my three journals to help me fulfill my destiny and purpose as writer. I sincerely hope I have plenty of time to exhaust the language I carry with me, to make some sort of difference.

Still Another Teachable Moment

2011-09-09T00:10:00.000-04:00

I have two young nephews, the youngest of my siblings' children. In the hustle of my life as a teaching artist, and many months spent on the road with this career, I often miss important events in their lives: school plays, sports activities, even their birthdays. In addition, since so often I am waiting for payment, or am faced with the current challenges of the economy, they suffer not just the lack of time we can spend together but maybe even the things that we would do together that I cannot afford. I regret these obstacles and they do not deserve to reap the consequences. I lost time with my older neices and nephew and now that they are all grown, I want to make sure I am present and active with these two, to get it right, and to be a source of support and affirmation, a person with whom discovery and laughter are constant elements.

A few weeks ago, with the summer vacation waning, the three of us were in the car headed for a hike at a wonderful place south of Syracuse called Tinkers Falls. One of my nephews, the 12-year old, had been there with me once already but his 9-year old cousin had not. This would allow the one boy to show the other what he had discovered and be a bit of a mentor.

The discussion of the looming school year, the list of summer activities left to do, the roller coasters that were yet to be conquered, was primary on our drive. I posed the question: "What if you could go to school for an extra hour each day but you could have a longer summer vacation? Would you do that?"

There was a quiet moment of contemplation, probably during which they each listened to an inner dialog that likely runs, "Oh no, there Aunt Georgia goes again with another crazy idea."

Additionally, I proposed that the extra hour per day could be designated for electives, enrichment, extra study time, or intra-murals, etc. This didn't sound so bad to any of us all of a sudden.

I suggested that we figure it out. I pulled out my driving log and the pen I keep in the pocket of my car door and handed it to my older nephew. "Let's do the math...multiply 180 days of school by 6 hours." I marveled at the weird way he computed the total. I admit I am clueless about the ways math is taught to children now and I would never be much help with homework. But he came up with 1,080, the total of instruction hours they now experience.

So then we agreed that they would lose 20 days of school if there were a month more of summer free time. So the next step was to multiply 160 theoretical school days times 7 hours of instruction. Once we had a sum, it turns out that there would be 1,120 hours of school plus an extra month to do summer stuff. That sounded pretty good to all of us. Who could we talk to? Could we ever get this idea across to people who make decisions? We figured it would be unlikely.

We talked a lot more on our 30-minute drive, mostly about what the 9-year old might find when we got to the falls.

While I walked the path, and the boys walked the nearly dry creek bed, taunting frogs and finding fossils, their pockets grew burdened with more and more weight. They know I love to collect rocks so a lot of these were gifts for me. But we also had to embrace another teachable moment: once you start finding rocks you like, you find even more. And once you start picking them up, you had to carry them. They grew heavier. The best lesson: some of them you leave behind and rely upon the memory of discovery.

I cherish each one of these memories because some day these two gems of my life will be adults. My goal is that they will be sitting with friends, talking about being kids, laughing as they share stories, and they will say to group, "Let me tell you about my crazy Aunt Georgia..."

Treasures throughout the House

2011-09-06T13:11:00.000-04:00

Awhile back, I posted about the treasures and gifts that students give to me when I am in residence in schools. I am completely delighted when a young person makes me something, even the smallest note or drawing, and I keep every one. I have several file folders in my cabinet but I also have them on my desk, tucked into my journal, framed on my wall.

Often with student art, I am able to decode the image and respond appropriately with a compliment or a question. Every so often, I am stumped. In winter 2010, I was in residence in a small rural town in southern New York, working with 6th graders. One boy, a very outgoing kid and very invested in the poetry projects we were investigating, came into class the last day with an paper mache art project in hand and a bit of a scowl. I offered my compliment on his sculpture and he grumbled that he did not like it. I asked "Why?! It is a great cat." Oh my...wrong! He declared, "See?! It's not a cat; it's supposed to be a wolf."

Darn...I messed up by not letting him tell me first. I never did manage to master paper mache and I have never successfully created a realistic sculpture in any art project I have ever attempted so I fully empathized with his disappointment. But I complimented the work anyway. In turn, he asked me if I wanted to keep it. I said I would be delighted, no matter what manner of animal it was.

I got the piece home and adjusted to life with my virtual pet. My own cat had just died so I was somewhat comforted with this little being. And the pseudo cat became my project for a few weeks. I moved him around the house, as did my friend Brian, and we took pictures of the still cat in live cat poses. First, the kitchen:

Soon the cat moved to the living room to check the weather report on television:

He proved to be a scamp and an acrobat as the holiday decorations were being put away:

My virtual pet finally settled into a semi-permanent perch on my dictionary in the dining room. Humorous as it is that I keep a dictionary on a lectern in my house, why not?! I am poet with a penchant for word games. I find it both appropriate and practical.

As for the cat, his original owner starts 8th grade this week and is likely a foot taller than the last time I saw him. The cat, well, he serves great purpose as he minds my words and hopefully wards off the wolf at the door.

Does Everyone have TBD?

2011-08-29T21:14:00.002-04:00

Ellen DeGeneres is not only a remarkably funny comedian and celebrity, she is also a brilliant writer. I have made it my habit in the course I teach to college honors students to screen Ellen's last stand-up performance that was broadcast on HBO, Here and Now. I like to ask my students to slow down and observe the ordinary, the everyday elements of life. The whole course is based on what a concept I learned from Eric Booth, a method of observation he refers to as reading the world. Ellen fits right into my syllabus.

Along her journey from first premise to last line, Ellen spins a seemingly unraveled thread of humor that always leads us over the hills and curves of her narrative, holding our stomachs to cushion the grip of laughter. She gifts us with the satisfying conclusion of her observations, reflections on our humanness and humor. Ellen impresses us through a mastery of language. She leads us skillfully. Then, she draws near the end of her hour, always stunningly funny. Her convoluted story comes full circle. It is close to miracle. I marvel each time I watch either of her stage shows. They are poetry and dance.

Ellen uses the literal nature of language as her diving board. She has a remarkable delivery, brilliant with an aside. As she performs, she pays homage to the storyteller comedians of the 1960s. The tones I notice most are Bob Newhart, Bill Cosby, Moms Mabley, George Carlin, and Lily Tomlin. I also hear Totie Fields, Godfrey Cambridge, Joan Rivers, Robert Klein, Alan King, Flip Wilson, and Phyllis Diller. The story must be equal to the punch line but one cannot suffer for the other.

One curve through Here and Now invites us to recognize the newest societal dis-ease: Too Busy Disorder or TBD.

I self-diagnosed the first time I watched the show and now I have to periodically remember to monitor my TBD. I am trying to remember to take the time to take action in ways aside from utilizing the technology available to me. I am trying to remember to read a book just to read - for pure pleasure or curiosity, much less to read all the research and career building material I have piled around me. I have to also remember that reading is a part of my work, not something to try to fit into the daily planner. I cannot be too busy to read. It is kind of like breathing but sometimes I find myself holding my air without even noticing.

I started making my own cards and notepaper with the stamp collection I have developed. I receive a creative satisfaction each time I sit to design some new cards. They are always limited editions. It is satisfying to select the card from my collection that suits the recipient and occasion, then hand write the note with one of my fountain pens, usually purple or turquoise ink. To prepare and mail a card is such a simple act.

This past school year, I sent thank you cards to the principals of the schools I teach in year after year. My residency season in the district was scheduled during the annual budget meetings and I was fully aware of the challenge that the superintendent was facing, along with his Board of Education and entire district staff. I understand what it takes for a principal and a whole school to welcome me to do my work. Many individuals go out of their way to support my success in classrooms. I also know what it takes from the principal's budget. I am honored when administrators make that choice. There are many programs and resources that they could choose to afford their students and teachers but there are principals who invest in my work, my approach, the pedagogy I hope to share. I am grateful.

It is not any easier a time for our school administrators than our teachers. I generally ask for an appointment to speak with them personally. I don't need long, perhaps a 10-minute meeting just to share what my teaching focus for this visit, which classes seem to be responding well, share new resources that I may have brought for the teachers, a short conversation to inform the principal about what I have developed for the school, based on what we have done years past and are now adding to that foundation. Time to be humans together, both interested in the best for the school. Keeping it short suits their calendars and the TBD they probably have developed over the years.

I should have prefaced that I do not have a "package," which is sometimes difficult in trying to get bookings, to communicate what I can actually offer. I have been in schools at all grade levels long enough now that I do have some processes and activities that I know work, but they will always be tailored to the school's climate and curriculum. Each year I return to a particular school, I add something new, a twist, to what I modeled previously or I find a new approach to the curriculum. It is a creative form of design. It is like making a thank you card. Like making a poem. I can't be too busy for that.

On the Flip Side...There Is Joy...

2011-08-28T18:33:00.001-04:00

Love love love my kids this year. I nearly always do, but this could prove to be an exceptional group, and an exceptional year for my school. I do hope you can visit. It’s unlike any other school I’ve seen, let alone taught in. Very interesting slice of our district. Poverty and ethnicities. We have a 30-something teacher at 6th grade this year who is a graduate of our school. If you can make it out of the ingrained poverty in that neighborhood, it’s cause for major celebration. Our school psychologist came from Mexico at 5 or 6, enrolled at this school knowing no English, lived in a converted garage with a dirt floor, went on to get her degrees at the region's State College and is thrilled to be back at at her home school. Her parents are illiterate. She says, “We always come back,” which is interesting to me cuz my fiance went to this school, and when his kids were school age, he moved back to the hood and they are going to his school, too. And he works there, doing yard duty at lunch.

1st Grade Teacher, 23 years of certified public education

After my recent post regarding this year's rigorous test scheduling in one friend's 2nd grade class, I received an email from another good friend, also an elementary school teacher in another small to mid-sized urban center in another part of the country. Geography and demographic may vary but the fact that the school year has begun points to commonalities for our schools and the communities they represent. I wanted to share this side of the coin.

Teachers are fiercely dedicated to their work. They have to be to do it well. And they are best at it if they love children/young people. Teachers work in varied settings, schools made in the 1920s of brick, schools built in warm climates with lockers outside in open breezeways, schools in small rooms on native soil, and cinderblock walls of detention centers, or someone's dining room. Teachers will teach wherever they must and with whatever they are afforded. They understand and respect the critical need as well as the miracle that is learning.

Teaching artists, those of us in the fine arts who choose to share our craft and our complusive drive to create in community settings where learning is happening, to help make learning happen, we harbor a dual passion: the need to express ourselves artistically and the desire to teach what we know about and how we experience the world. We know our art forms can communicate concepts, processes, knowledge of all themes and subjects, in ways that support the standard pedagogy of our nation's classrooms. The holistic education that arts-based learning accents builds more than data regurgitators. The creative space to ponder and experiment in movement, form, color, language, and thought strengthens a different muscle mass.

We also know that our commitment to education does not diminish our identities as artists. In most cases, I argue that the sharing and the creative problem-solving, the critical thinking and asethetic approach to developing lessons and curriculum, the constant inquiry from students actually enhances our craft. The adage is true: teach what you want to learn.

Teachers greet their school year knowing that they have many odds to overcome but the success of their students is the primary objective and they will do whatever they must to support that success. They will advocate for the learners before them. They will withstand all of the obstacles, even if they can see a way that negates the need for the obstacle. They deserve their salaries, they deserve the resources it takes to teach our children well. But our political climate is fostering a tone that spins those expectations so that they seem to be asking for too much. The devaluation of the American citizenry is becoming more and more obvious in the Monopoly game strategy of our current legislators. Teachers are the front line of this battle and they fight for themselves and the right to a safe, productive workplace. They also fight for families. They fight to insure the future that, Monday through Friday, is walking off the bus, being dropped off by an SUV, or walking neighborhood streets to the front doors of America's schools. It doesn't matter public or private, charter or home school, rural or urban. School is often the place where our children discover and develop their own capacity for learning or it is squelched.

I teach in two school districts that employ many teachers who have returned to the schools they attended, a connection similar to the lineage detailed in the opening quote. I also teach periodically in the district from which I not only graduated after completing all 12 grades but the district that first fostered me as a young writer.

Teaching artists live day by day often, patching together a quilt of jobs to make it through, all in the hopes of creating more time for making art. It is still another chicken vs. the confusing egg koan of modern life. We are often vulnerable in this economy and current tone of politics. We understand why teachers need unions. We too stand as an element of society that is on the front line for funding, respect, and recognition of our value.

We also understand why a teacher is gleeful when a child is empowered by his own achievement. It is not about the product, but the wonder, as my dear friend and role model, Richard Lewis (Touchstone Center for Children), has shown in his many years of working with young people. The end product of the good grade or a piece of art, to take home is a wonderful affirmation. There is no denying that. But what first makes a person choose to teach, select a career in education in any form, and then to consider returning to the school they attended? It can only be that it was safe, it was nurturing, it created a space for wonder, achievement, community, a home.

Our educators create all that and more. My many teacher friends illustrate this all the time. Teachers protect, observe, and advocate for those in our society who have little choice in what direction their own lives may be driven yet must adapt, our youth. My teaching artist friends are driven by the same fuel. My friends who teach are passionately committed and that is why they speak what they witness. This is why I reflect what they speak to you. I share the passion. I recognize the joy.

Digging Yellow Dock Is Always A Potent Metaphor

2011-08-27T09:58:00.000-04:00

Saturday morning, fairly early and definitely quiet. I am bearing witness to the slow waking of my neighborhood, the first weekend the students are back. Classes start Monday. The tone has changed. Still, over the trill of crickets and songbirds' breakfast chatter, a church bell sounds in the distance, signal that morning mass is over. The miracle has happened once again. The sun is gentle and crisp.

In the past week, I have been systematically addressing the 2 years of overgrowth in my garden. I have to be gentle with my back so I have to limit my time but, if I am consistent, I can make good progress. I always identified with the tortoise when I was a kid.

Since we have also had consistent rain this week, coupled with the end of season pacing that allows the roots to flex their muscles less, the soil is perfect for disruption.

I have to decide how I want to redefine the form and texture of this garden, now that the sister maples are gone. The stump mulch I convinced the arborists to leave behind has been fully incorporated into my garden and the neighbor's yard. There is a topography now to play with, as well as new planting options since there is so much more light. I can return to my interplay with rocks. I know there are some that are ready to be off the ground, ready cause confusion and marvel with their acrobatics as they balance in musical ways.

I dig weeds best when I am working through some new level of healing or awareness. This has been another summer of facing zero income and redefining my work plan. It is the summer of my 40th high school reunion, a significant milestone. It is the summer of my recommitment, after considerable review, to the work, the learning, the journey of my identity as both poet and educator.

There are so many ways I can express all of the ideas that swirl through my brain, much like Hurricane Irene this morning, slapping the east coast with her outrage. Somewhere I find the eye of the frenzy as I dislodge the deepest tap of the dock root or chicory. Fear is exorcised and everything becomes clear for a few moments. I ignore the incessant ringing of the phone inside the house, bill collectors and those who anticipate I am available. I am working. I am not obliged to answer quite yet. I am writing and I am strengthening, readying for the next phase of both my life and my sometimes awkward career path.

I do this work because I want to share all the ways I am excited about language and communication. I love the making of poems. I love the ways people know each other and themselves better through the many masks poetry may wear in connecting with human understanding. How they discover and thrive in their own creation or comprehension. I find tremendous satisfaction in sharing this art that I adore, this way of engaging in life.

I love music. I like poems for that reason too.

I am creating a patchwork quilt of work to sustain me, hoping I get through and build a stability once again. I am becoming more and more vigilant in my reaching out to readers and advocates. There is work and I will find it. Or the people who will benefit from my perspective and my approach to learning and writing will find me. There is purpose in what I do, what Quraysh and I have created in our dialogue that became our book.

One of the unanticipated lessons in writing Our Difficult Sunlight has been discovering that I like to write prose. It is why I am offering more through the blog as well. I am a writer. This forum has become a consistent part of my practice.

The other day, someone asked me how I had time to write if I am blogging regularly. I responded that this is writing. I also realized that I am just taking some time away from poetry. I value the quiet times. Like Saturday morning in the yard. A time for review and redefinition. A time for the fluster of a flock of powdery brown little budgies chasing to the far side of the street to perch on the church railing.

Besides, when the air smells like ice cubes melting on a countertop and the bird commentary echoes The View, I can retreat from the deadlines, the proposal concepts, snippets of poems, agendas, calendars, and urgent communication, the marketing plan, the storm in my brain. I can stop typing now to watch the daddylonglegs stroll the bind weed that has adopted my front railing. I can write. It is my passion, my entertainment, my art, my mission, it is my work. It is my identity.

I have dug very deep to attain that knowledge. I vow again: Onward. As directed one New Year's by my dear friend Phil, Proceed and be bold.

I can return to my pitchfork and weed weasel, as I am about to do.

I trust the work will come. I have many irons in the fire. I have been creating options and choices. Each time I have reached a roadblock, I have regrouped and charted an alternate course. I hope I am right. I would like to not struggle so much but that may be contrary to the dharma anyway, so I dig deep, loosen the tangle of overgrowth, listen to the devas as they help me design the planned community of my front garden, how the wind chime choruses their recommendations. It is all part of the revision process, the eternal thumb puzzle that is my life (to quote my friend Brian).

School Daze...School Daze...

2011-08-25T09:20:00.003-04:00

Thank you for your continued understanding and support. Latest idiocy from the district - we are going to be giving up over a month of critical ELA instruction to test the kids. There will be 7 unit tests - including giving the end-of-the-year test the 2nd week of school, as well as at the end of the year. Then there are computer tests 3 times a year. Then there are dibels testing 3 times a year. Then there is prep for the state test, and finally 3 days of state tests themselves. As I've said before, it's like my continuous diets. Let's just keep on getting on the scale, but don't change eating habits at all.

God help us all!

The quote above is from an email from a colleague who teaches 2nd grade in advance of this new school year in a mid-sized urban school district. This teacher is closing in on retirement eligibility within the next couple of years. This teacher reflects the plight of teachers all over the country, teachers who have dedicated their lives to educating our children. Passionate teachers who are now facing retirement have seen countless reform initiatives and never have those initiatives stood in the way of the care teachers have for children. But the current state of education is definitely impeding teacher passion for their work because of the unreasonable and often unfounded choices they must comply with any given school year.

I have seen fabulous teachers planning their exit strategy who fully know not only how to teach but how to properly and thoroughly assess the learning evident in their students. It is not because they are lousy teachers or they do not love kids. It is because the business of education is as broken as much of the rest of our system in this nation. It is because of the dehumanizing of the national climate of education. It may be that the media and the current wave of reformers are placing the greatest weight of the failures of our schools on the shoulders of teachers.

In a recent conversation on Book TV's program Afterwords, between Diane Ravitch and Steven Brill, Brill cites a teacher in New York City barking at students as he shouts inane questions at his students, feet up on his desk. I find it very difficult to believe that this was a firsthand observation, rather than a reflection of someone else's story. I cannot imagine any teacher being so lax while being observed by outsiders.

This rant in the nation about the impact of bad teachers is a filmy argument. There are inept practitioners in any field and they are always the minority. The current demonization of both the unions, Randi Weingarten (president of the American Teachers Union) in particular, and teachers in general offends my intelligence.

I have seen Michelle Rhee and members of the press gang up on Ms. Weingarten over and over in panel discussions. It seems the charter school reformists are the newest teacher's pets of Washington. I hear Ms. Weingarten stating over and over that teachers should be evaluated, as should students, but the playing field has to be equal and teachers need to be afforded all the needs and resources possible to insure their success, much less provided a healthy and vital workplace. This includes validation as to their own level of expertise. This includes a viable income. It includes quality and consistent professional development.

But it also includes access to the supplies necessary to serve the students well. This playing field must allow for students to be well-nourished, rested, clothed appropriately for their climates, and to have support in dealing with and healing from outside influences that impact learning. Few of these new reformists seem to be even the least bit willing to address this issue, much less our legislators.

On the other hand, reformer Geoffrey Canada proposed that the best teachers be recruited for and retained in poverty-ridden schools by offering considerable signing bonuses and significantly higher salaries. His logic was that the less able teachers would be less of an obstacle in districts where the income supported higher school taxes, thus more resources, not to mention the benefits affordable outside of school, such as tutoring, private lessons, extra-curricular sports, etc.

We have got to look through a clear lens here. We have to pay attention to the plight of what teaching to these assessment tests only does to the quality of daily instruction. I took tests in school but they were in relation to my teacher's curriculum. Then I carted home my green report card with the gauge of my success as a student several times a year. Once a year, I took the famous Iowa Test along with everyone in my school district. I was extremely intimidated. I later realized that I am not a good test-taker. I panic. I am much like many people and certainly many students. But we took the test with our #2 pencils poised to fill in the bubbles. Then, the next day, we got back to learning.

Put Your Efforts Where Your Mouth Is...

2011-08-22T16:31:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I watched a discussion on CSPAN2/Book TV between Diane Ravitch and Steven Brill as they debated issues and concerns regarding the current state of American education on the show Afterwords.

Here we have two people who are obviously invested in the current state of education in our nation, as we all should be. One of them has the newest book on the market, written by a professional journalist who admitted in the conversation that he was motivated to investigate educational issues after he heard about the infamous "Rubber Rooms" in New York City. He is noted for creating "Court TV." He completed law school but clarified Ms. Ravitch's stating that he was a lawyer by explaining that he did not take the bar exam. Most likely a well-meaning fellow. With a book that is getting a lot of press.

Diane Ravitch has 40 years of teaching and writing on the history of education. She has experience working with the first President Bush on national education reform and with numerous think tanks studying educational policy. She also has a recent book that looks at the concerns from a place of her study, her practical application, and her data, one of several.

Steven Brill anticipated antagonism so,in turn and without warrant often, he created it throughout the whole hour. It was supposed to be an interview but it was a dialogue and at times bordered on argument. I have to stand on the side of Diane Ravitch, who has dedicated her whole career to the subject that Brill, the journalist, has just opened his eyes to, and upon which he has churned out a book now that he has become enlightened to the problem.

Good for him that he took some action. He wrote a book to call people to the cause. But does he miss the real point? I have not yet read the book and I feel obliged to do so. But I believe I am going to be annoyed when I do; I can tell from his performance on Book TV.

There is plenty on the internet to give some insight and substantiation of my perception. Search out the reviews. View the episode of Afterwords yourself. But what I really want to suggest is that there should be some sort of mechanism to allow these people to try education on for size. Actor Tony Danza tried with his reality show, Teach. He had to teach two classes for one year. Twenty-six students who met the "casting call." He was reduced to tears. His show was cancelled before the complete run. Cameras left school in April. Tony left in June. He did not return nor is he pursuing permanent certification. He understands how hard it is.

So for those who are considering school reform, for instance, Steven Brill, here's an idea: go teach in any school of your choice for one month. Pick your grade level. Pick a subject if you are in secondary school. Work all day. Administer pre-tests, design lesson plans, learn your students' names, teach them all day, grade papers, council students and meet with parents, take lunchroom duty, proctor in-school suspension, monitor study hall, attend faculty meetings, and then administer post-tests and assess the quality and retention of learning based on your work. Then receive evaluation of your effectiveness as a teacher. You will be permitted to take a vacation after that 4 weeks. You will need it. Then tell us about how badly teachers perform in America. Then you can speak authentically about teachers unions, charter schools vs. public schools, and what you understand about the challenges to teaching our youth and the level of support any teacher receives in being professionally prepared for what will happen in that classroom daily.

I suggest this very same for all of our federal legislators before they debate on funding for education. People do not understand. For years I have heard people tell me that teachers have an easy job. Oh yeah...just try it.

I am in numerous schools throughout the year, in urban, suburban, and rural settings. The average adult worker could not do this job. I see it through a clear and large lens. Don't believe the myth of all the vacation time and short hours. These are the people who are shepherding our youth toward their future. Have some respect for those in whom many of us are placing the responsibility of raising our children. They are so much more important than a judge on American Idol or a professional athlete, so much more worthy of our respect, if not our devotion and idolatry.

My Compulsions Drive Me Incessantly

2011-08-21T10:31:00.000-04:00

I have many obsessions, compulsions, and inspirational activities. I keep many lists, I like even numbers better than odd, my silverware drawer must be just so at all times.

I also incessantly review, revise, and self-edit. So, first things first...I reread my post of the other day and found a great typo, thinking poetically. What should have been eminent domain was posted by my fingers as imminent domain. I like the pun. I am often delighted by puns so this works; however, I wanted to be sure my readers see that I do recognize the difference.

My other obsession is for word games. I adore Scrabble, Super Scrabble, and the game of all games, Boggle. The problem is that these are interactive games that require at least one other player as well as keeping score. My sister-in-law, Susan, introduced me to a new one this week: Bananagrams. It is like Scrabble with no board and you play your own words by yourself, while your other friends create their grids. And the tiles come in a cute little banana pouch that looks like a yellow fanny pack. What more could a word geek ask for? You can play with others or you can play by yourself! Yippee.

I have researched E-Bay for the game at a discount but, with shipping, it will be the same as buying new. I know what I want when I have an extra $15 to splurge. I also know how to resolved some holiday gift ideas in December. Ah, yes...I am starting my list. Perhaps I will plan ahead this year. Until then, I will just raid the Scrabble tiles and play with the same concentration that I apply to the many versions of Solitaire that can consume me on a rainy afternoon.

The Ever-Obvious Metaphors of Gardening

2011-08-19T17:45:00.000-04:00

Last summer I spent a lot of time on my front porch where I could get wi-fi while I worked with Quraysh on Google Docs to get our book written. I generally am found on the deck in back. It was fortuitous because it was the last summer with my two guardian trees. With last summer's extreme heat and a pressing deadline for the manuscript completion, the garden was left to its own devices. I liken it to a teenager: it thinks it can take care of itself, and it can do okay, but sometimes Mom has to step in and put things in order. Well, Mom did not get to it in 2010.

Last fall I lost the two trees in front of my house because lingering disease was weakening them too much for safety. I called the city and the decision was made to euthanize them. In turn, this was the year to watch, to determine what I could plant that I have never been able to plant because the Norwegian Maple canopy afforded too little light.

As we all know, this has been a summer of extremes and my gardening effort is backlogged once again.This morning it was comparatively cool, dry, lovely. I forsook my morning journal practice to dig in the insane olio of intentional and unintentional overgrowth in my front yard.

I stuck my pitchfork into the soil to loosen a gnarl of plantain, dandelion, forget-me-not, and chicory. It seems that I disturbed a colony of those teeny red ants. I don't think they were ready for the surface, much less their home being destroyed. They swarmed in a frenzy, all over my feet, up my arms, all over the sidewalk. They bit me, leaving little red anthills all over my ankles and arms.

I saw a metaphor for so many human disruptions: the way a housing project will be emptied, such as Cabrini Green in Chicago, displacing a whole population in short shrift. Or the imminent domain backed by a wealthy real estate developer. Or a school community will be disrupted by the decisions of the school board without parent input.

When we have no choice in the changes in our lives, we swarm and we bite. We have witnessed the swarm of teachers and union members in Wisconsin. Last year teachers marched in New Jersey as well. We witnessed students at Detroit's Catherine Ferguson Academy for Young Women sit in to protest closing of their school. We also witnessed some of those same young women arrested for their civil disobedience.

In the long run, we witnessed all that those young ladies and their teachers, their remarkable administrator as well, bring light to their ordeal and then sponsors to save the school, which is so much more than a school. It is the beginning of a new life.

The young women of Catherine Ferguson have quite a bite and now they will thrive for their feisty refusal to be dislodged. My ants may take their territory back as well.

More on Making Things...

2011-08-18T12:25:00.011-04:00

Ask.com answers my query with the following: Poem is from the Greek poema, a noun derived from the verb poie-o, to make or do. Poets are often called makers.Thanks to my dear friend Linda Moore for bringing this derivation to my attention originally.

It is this making that keeps swirling through my thoughts. Too many poets are too much in their heads. We are a solitary sort in our creative process. But learning to allow the environment of the poem and all it is striving to achieve be a welcoming place for me is the work at hand. In writing a poem, I believe myself as the source of the work, rather than the conduit. In making a poem, I am a creative first responder to the moment of noticing, awareness that opens the window for a breeze that is inspiration. It is the mirror that reflects this moment in time. I, as poet, will commit those images, moments, sounds, thoughts, words to breath and into type. I respond to this life we have been dreamed into with my verse.

It is in this making that we poets must be willing to be most honest. It is with the intention of honest reflection that the best poems are written, those poems that reflect the world to itself through the individual lens of that artist who commits to the act of making the poem, establishing contact. It is through the poet's lens that we can see through windows of the places and times where and when others have lived, are living.

We teach a great deal through poetic verse. We see with the eyes of a fly, so many lenses. The poet must be conscious and speak for, to, and with the greater community. We have done this for thousands of years. We teach language through the sound and meter of poetry, even in pre-reading. It is in the pulse of our blood as a people. Poetry is organic, more than the towers and lecture halls of academia may have allowed us to believe throughout the 20th century. More than the media of the age would accept. Poetry is for everyone. We enjoy it more than many admit or recognize.

The myth of poetry being too elusive for the average person, too challenging, is failing, is waning. There is a poem for everyone, a poem that speaks to that person's individual experience and understanding. A poem with which that reader feels competent in how they interpret the words and metaphor. We will never all like the same poem. But we will each be able to identify with one poem we rely upon or always remember.

The job of the poet is to catalog by using the wealth and lush capacity of language and image, to reflect everything of the human condition, of history, of nuance, of the marvel that this speck of the universe provides, as well as its pain, or our outrage.

My job is to create and to share, to communicate and connect. My job is to promote my creative art in all the ways it serves us and to encourage poetry as a viable aspect of lifelong learning as well as personal and cultural expression. I encourage others to make things as well.

Postscript:

From the Owl Publishing web site I fell upon, the following quote: Prose is when all the lines except the last go on to the end. Poetry is when some of them fall short of it. Jeremy Bentham (1748-1832)

The Free Dictionary on line offers this definition:

po·em

1. A verbal composition designed to convey experiences, ideas, or emotions in a vivid and imaginative way, characterized by the use of language chosen for its sound and suggestive power and by the use of literary techniques such as meter, metaphor, and rhyme.

2. A composition in verse rather than in prose.

3. A literary composition written with an intensity or beauty of language more characteristic of poetry than of prose.

4. A creation, object, or experience having beauty suggestive of poetry.

[French poème, from Old French, from Latin poema, from Greek poiema, from poiein, to create; see k^wei-² in Indo-European roots.]

Why Working on the Deck Affirms My Conviction (and other summer rationalizations)

2011-08-12T11:45:00.001-04:00

Three years ago this week, I was laid off. It was a surprise. I took the news with a considerable dissociative air. It was unexpected and I was not in agreement with the reasons why my position was being downsized but that was ultimately irrelevant. I did not have a job, effective immediately. The work, the agency, the constituents had all been my primary focus for 10 years, as well as a growing financial security.

I loved the projects I was able to help design and implement. I found great satisfaction in being the conduit between two people or organizations that could find mutual benefit that would suit the collective. I was honored to learn so much about the artists in our community and support their journeys into programs and schools as teaching artists. I loved working in a state of collaboration as a standard operating procedure.

I also had an ongoing teaching gig in a school district that was a supplement to my program directorship, which had always been a part-time position. I had the best of both worlds in building my practice and honing my craft.

Within hours of being laid off, I had already applied for a job and started a networking effort to let folks know I had a sudden change of circumstance.

Within hours I had already traversed the soul searching to affirm to myself that, this time around, it was not about a job any longer, it was about the Work.

I spent the next 3 years continuing my work in the school districts that have fulfilled the foundation of my career, teaching adult writing courses, completing a collection of poetry, starting two more, as well as writing and now promoting the publication of Our Difficult Sunlight. I have also deepened my commitment to the Comstock Review as managing editor. I am fully immersed in my identity of Poet. This is quite comforting. I have managed, albeit in an often bumbling manner; I have survived, in spite of the economy and certainly with the support of many, for whom I am ever and always grateful; I have succeeded. That is the most important of the three. I have met my goals and in many ways exceeded them.

Too often I set my sights on everything I have not yet accomplished or have put off for some compulsive procrastinating reason or another. I make incessant lists. I beat myself up for those items not accomplished, in spite of the inordinate length of tasks and to-dos. So I started a new practice: I established an Accomplishment Log. Instead of looking at a list with check marks that always leaves something undone, this is the list of the things I did accomplish to reflect upon with regularity. To qualify for the Log, the task must be something that I have avoided or put off for at least 24 hours. Some log entries have been completion of goals or actions left undone for 10 years. My log is filling up and my life is more manageable day by day by day. It is the accomplishment that I then dwell on, rather than the perceived failure. Small amateur behavior mod trick but it seems to be working.

I have spent this summer concerning myself with the bleak future I have been perceiving. I am a realist. The economy is frightening and my own pockets reflect it. I am likely to have much less of the school work I have relied upon thus far. I also have new opportunities. I have applied for several jobs. I have not received them for reasons I don't necesarily know. I am allowing my faith to soothe me in trusting that I am still making right choices that best suit me as well as the highest good for all involved. For, please understand me when I share this, this Work is about humanity and the power of language for me. This Work is about love and communication. I have to trust that I am supported to be able to continue to serve with my talents and abilities. For me, this work is about others and finding ways to support them in self-empowerment, however that may take form. These words are the heart of my personal mission statement.

I reaffirm, it is not about a job. It is about the Work. If a position comes along to which I am suited, I will be delighted. I will continue to network and reach out for consulting, editing, and teaching gigs. I will start planning the five different classes I will be teaching this fall. I will persevere.

And today, I work under the leaf umbrella of the Norwegian Maple canopy of my deck, watching the feral cats sun, glimpsing the red and blue streaks of cardinal and jay, listening to the trance music of summer. Today, I also blogged...another entry for my daily Log.

Snack Time - New Culinary Discoveries...

2011-08-06T15:29:00.005-04:00

When I visit classes in elementary schools, there is an inevitable session that falls just as snack time is ending or scheduled. The students' desks are topped with an array of finger foods and crunchy treats, juice boxes, carrot sticks in zip lock bags, cookies. The teacher will often have big barrel-shaped plastic containers of snack mix or pretzels as thick as a thumb. They would have paid for that staple out of pocket at Aldi's or the Dollar Tree.

One of the treats I have been introduced to I find addicting is the junk food delicacy of Takis. A Taki is a Nacho Dorito on steroids, combined with a hint of salt and vinegar potato chip flavor. They stain your tongue and fingers red. They cause your tongue to tingle and pucker. You can only eat about 10 before maxing out.

I cannot find a bag of Takis in upstate NY so I bought a couple of them in Newburgh before I left Orange County at the end of my 2010-11 contract with Middletown Schools. I finished one bag about 6 weeks ago. I am hesitant to open the second because I know that, once I do, there is no turning back. I will devour them over the course of about a week. Then they will be gone.

My Treasure Files

2011-08-06T09:56:00.000-04:00

Over the years in which I have worked in schools, both daytime and afternoon programs, I have received many small gifts from students. Often these gifts are little drawings that children have made, perhaps even while listening to our lesson. Sometimes they are portraits of me, a lovely reflection of who I am to the young humans before me. Other times the gift may be a poem, either handwritten or printed off a computer. These will likely have colorful, creative fonts and clip art illustrations. Teens give me gifts as well, Anime pencil drawings perhaps but mostly copies of writings that they want me to read and to remember them by. Poems they hope I will affirm. There is always something positive to state about the work. They often linger until most of their classmates have transitioned out the door toward the next class. Their need is earnest. Often my name is spelled in creative ways.

Students also seem somewhat surprised that their gifts are appreciated. I tell the elementary students that I will keep their gifts in myTreasure File. In the early days of my work with youth, I started a file folder for the little scraps and pieces of construction paper, notebook paper unclipped from 3-ring binders, origami cranes of various sizes and colors, friendship bracelets braided from embroidery floss. I graduated to the larger document pockets when I outgrew the first folder.

Sometimes students give me other gifts, little trinkets or bookmarks from the school library. This past school year, one 3rd grader slipped an ice-blue rubber bracelet over my hand to my right wrist from his own on my last day with his class. "Ms. Popoff, I want you to have this. I won it in basketball in gym..." I told him I was not sure that I should accept the gift since it was his and it represented his achievement but he insisted. I accepted but still I questioned, did I have the right to take this child's marker of doing well? I was also conscious that he was not a child of privilege. But I remember his face as if he were right before me now and I remember his huge grin in the act of giving. I had given him something of value and he was reciprocating. That is a basic human act and we are bonded by a small circle of rubber.

I noticed later that the bracelet was imprinted with a slogan something to the affect of "Remember Autism" and an Autism support organization web site. I have close friends who parent children with Autism and related processing abilities. I have taught many students who process differently than I do. For the next couple of days, every time I looked at my right wrist, I thought of my generous young man as well as my many creative students in supported classrooms.

Three days later, in the school hallway near the art rooms, I passed my young benefactor in line with his class. I have a little sign of greeting I share with students so we can be excited to see each other in the halls but maintain the decorum expected in the common areas. It is like a private handshake and it avoids most outbursts of "HI MS. POPOFF!!!" in the library or outside the lavatories. After sharing the our coded greeting, I caught the eye of the boy and pointed to my wrist, the band of blue. His eyes got big and he exclaimed, "You still have it!" I placed my index finger to my lips as a reminder we were in the hall and then I whispered with a genuine and gigantic smile, "Of course I do."

I knew at that moment that I was right to keep the bracelet. I wore it every day for nearly 3 months. I never took it off. After awhile, the white print of the organization and its motto wore off. The summer heat soared to 100. The sweat under the band was annoying so I took it off. Right now it is in a small dish on my nightstand with some Silly Bands that my nephew gave me. I will add it to the Treasure File when I am ready to not notice it every day, when I remember his face without the visual prompt and I keep the talents and skills of my students with special needs and abilities in the forefront of my consciousness.

The Natural Rhythms of Summer and a Foreboding Forecast

2011-08-02T20:44:00.000-04:00

It has been a rough-n-tumble summer, given the huge impact of the current state of the nation and how it will affect everything, most certainly how it will hobble the world of education. I am piece-mealing my way through the summer months with some freelance work and a bit of teaching here and there. It has been cause for anxiety and a lot of soul searching. The cloud banks on the horizon are ominous and tunneled for most of us, not the least of whom the art educators like me, working independently and without a net. We are quite vulnerable, even more so than we have known previously.

But this afternoon I am curiously at ease all of a sudden. I have been in deep self-examination since May, no stone unturned. At times it has been a fire walk. I have managed to achieve a great deal of clarity. I have taken a magnifying glass to my reasons for the career path I have chosen. In spite of the disruptions of our current economic and political climate, I believe that this is the work I should be doing. I will persevere.

I experienced a lengthy poetic quiet time. It lasted throughout much of the 80s and into the early 90s. In the silence of my pen, I invested a significant course of study in my spiritual understanding, learning principals of metaphysics. Poetry had fulfilled my spiritual need throughout my life until my early 30s, when the words ran dry in the face of constant frustration and roadblocks to living my truest identity as poet. It was a crisis of faith and I searched for understanding. This was equally frustrating since the questions, I have discovered, are often confounding, rarely answered and, if somehow there is an answer, it is generally anything but concrete.

I had a caring teacher who opened me to an understanding of healing and connection that is based in faith and intuition, the metaphysical realm of being that became an even stronger part of who I am in all ways. Rev. Joan D. Lee had a classroom in the basement of her suburban split ranch that served as a conduit to community in so many ways. There are countless ones such as myself who have reasons to honor and thank Joanie for all she presented to us, the keys to our knowledge, faith, and talents, that we then used to open a multitude of doors. For many of us, we embraced our life work. Our circle grew quite wide.

Rev. Joan has been on my mind this week, as is generally the case in August. It is her birthday month. We are no longer in touch. I knew that her husband of 55 years, Raymond Lee, made his transition this past winter. I wondered how she was going to get by. Joanie didn't drive.

This morning, as is my habit, I checked the obituaries on line. There was a notice with Joanie's name, stating that she passed into the Light on July 17th. I gasped. Then I offered my gratitude and bid her well in her journey. Thank you, Joan, for opening my eyes to my own capacity at a time when I needed both a mirror and a guide. Tonight I will light a candle in the garden for both Ray and Joan. I will place it between my two rose bushes that struggle on in their bed with not enough sun. I wonder who will inherit your rose beds. Will they understand how much you loved them? How long they have danced their seasons for you?

During my poetic quiet time, I learned much, including a healthy regard for the quiet times; an artist needs them. I also reflected often to the universe, If I may be of service with my words, please allow me to have them back. That was 17 years ago.

In these 17 years, I have created my life based on my true self, the one I knew intimately when I was first comprehending that I loved words. I am a poet. I take this very seriously.

In those 17 years, I have built a pedagogy and a sound practice that may be summed up in a 3-word motto: Empowerment through Language. I thank my friend Amanda Gormley for assigning the task that led to this summary. I have also written and published three books. There are at least four in my brain right now, waiting for my fingers to translate them into written language. One of them carries the title Psychometry. I will dedicate it to Joan.

In my work as a writer educator, no matter the age or circumstance of the students before me, I approach my work with intention and integrity. I have no agenda other than to foster the ability of others to engage truly with themselves, with others, and with their own connection to language, and earn a living sharing the knowledge and perspective I have developed over the 50 years I have identified as poet. I hope that what I have to say has relevance to others. I hope that people will cross more bridges of understanding the poets of the world provide to us all so we may learn of the world beyond the small stamps we each create on this planet.

This is a devoted path. It is my life. And now I trust that the recognition for my work will be expressed in a way that I am able to continue to earn my living and build some sense of security I do not have now.

It is a bit intimidating but we are all faced with fears in this moment in history. It is a crossroads for us all, one way or another. The horizon may appear dark but the sun is always just beyond, sometimes just beyond reach as well. But honor your belief in the sun. It is a constant.

Complacency Is a Slow Death - Last Part (for now...)

2011-07-22T14:28:00.000-04:00

Our workshop met for the last time yesterday, a 6-week cycle of sessions that I hope directed the writers to new ways of thinking about their work and, for a few, created fuel for new poems and directions.

They took the assignment seriously. Each brought a revision of my poem or a complete rewrite as they would envision it, as I had instructed. Several were still reticent to mess with my poem, others were quite comfortable taking it apart and making it something different and new.

I learned a lot about what the poem may be able to accomplish and why. I also recognized how completely buried I had become in the clever language that enamored me in the first place. It has been more than 2 years since the first draft and at least 18 months since the last so now I have a remarkably clear vision to rely upon in bringing the poem to its potential. I appreciate the efforts of each of the participants and I trust that the activity gave them something to consider as writers and editors.

I spoke last Saturday to my dear friend, Phil Alexander. We make a habit of sharing a weekend morning of puttering in our respective homes, his condo apartment in Brooklyn, my Victorian home in Syracuse, our headsets in our ears or phones on speaker, coffee cups probably in hand, and the little chores that need to be met.

We were talking about process and writing. I was discussing the purpose of being a poet and suggested that it is simply to make art, to investigate and experiment with language. Phil added that it was to use language to share a thought, feeling, or inspiration. I countered that I considered that the goal, but that to make a poem is about the discovery of the possibilities of language as a painter discovers the possibilities of paint in the experimentation. To me, in this stage of my life as a writing artist, the goal is secondary to the making; the product is secondary to process.

Then Phil suggested that the poem communicates to another the essence of the artist and the artist's beliefs and understanding. I suggested that, to me, that is the mission. The process is for the purity of making art. The goal is to make art that another responds to, and the mission is to make art that translates meaning and experience to others in a valuable and conscious way. In speaking with my dear friend, once again, I clarified my own mission statement. Thanks Phil!

Thanks to those members of my poetry workshop too. Not only did they share process and craft with each other while they created new work, they also supported my efforts to continue to be a teaching artist. I am blessed with abundance in this life because I have such people to share it with me, who believe in me, who see me through, and show me the way to all things, including the potential of my own work.

Complacency Is a Slow Death - Part 2

2011-07-19T13:25:00.000-04:00

The workshop conversation regarding critique and how we may learn from each other, provide new lenses with which to observe our own work was such a prod to me that I chose to take a tact that I have done before: I distributed copies of one of my own poems that is particularly troubling me and assigned the homework for the week - rewrite the poem. I instructed the workshop members to take full liberty. They were to read the poem and try to find a better way for the poem to reach its potential. There were no restrictions on how to do this.

I have done this before, mostly with introductory classes after I have driven home the revision process and its value. I have received comments from colleagues that this is "brave," "courageous," even "How can you do that? I never could."

I don't see why this is so brave? I want to drive home a number of points: I am just as prone to be stymied by a poem and the best way out is someone else's perspective on the poem itself and as well as their sense of the craft; although we honor the work, it is not so sacred that we can't let people play in it a little bit; and the process of discovery is the point. If I grant permission to mess it up, then have at it with hole heart and see what may be found.

Additionally, in having to reinterpret a poem, or to reflect the style of another poet, one gains as well. Having to respond to a poem by another writer in this way eliminates the emotional attachment that blocks some writers from comprehensive revision. The habit of revision must be cultivated and this is a fine exercise to support that cultivation, or so I believe. Plus, I am not so attached to my poem that I mind new interpretations. If I do not find anything that I value in the comments, it is my choice to not employ them, as is always the case with workshop comments. We, the poets, must always listen and then determine which of the comments support the essence of the poem, if any, and then make some changes based on what was gleaned.

I am looking forward to the results of the assignment. We will meet on Thursday for our last session of the summer. We will compare and contrast all of the interpretations of my poem and I will listen well. Then maybe I will distill all the comments in a way that I find the success that has eluded me thus far. I will report out to the blogosphere later in the week and share what resulted from this little foray.

Complacency Is a Slow Death

2011-07-18T10:58:00.000-04:00

This summer, as I focus on teaching adults rather than classrooms of school kids, a conversation surfaced in the poetry workshop regarding critique and suggestions from one writer to another.

One of the workshop participants took issue with another participant for the habit of offering rewrite suggestions. He felt that it was against protocol to rewrite another poet's work. This gentleman stated that he was very interested in receiving "harsh criticism" but that no one should rewrite his draft. Meanwhile, another member of the workshop was grappling with receiving comments from the other writers that did not suggest options for revision; he felt that simply stating what a reader felt was or was not successful does not deliver enough to help him make critical decisions for the growth of his work. He wants to be given examples of "how to fix it."

Here we have the age-old debate concerning workshopping. Workshop is the best way for any writer to take the work to a "control group" to ascertain its effectiveness and strengths. It is necessary to maintain an air of mutual regard. It is also supremely important to remember the difference between "critique" and "criticism." The difference also connects directly to ego issues on both sides. There must be an air of safety and respect among all participants for a beneficial exchange. A skilled facilitator will set that tone in the beginning and expect it to be maintained throughout the life of the workshop.

There are those who believe that there is no place for one poet rewriting another's work but I do not concur. In fact, my answer to the first gentleman was "Yes and no." No to the concept that a poem brought to workshop is so sacred that it cannot benefit from the ways that other writers may see the potential for the language and offer suggestions in tangible ways. Yes to the point that if, in the editorial suggestions, the person offering critique changes the context of the poem, that is not appropriate. We must strive to maintain the intention of the poem, but to provide viable options for the poet to consider. Then it is the poet's choice as to which suggestions will help deliver the success of the poem for the greatest readership.

In workshop, a poet has two jobs: to fairly offer critique to peers that will show a writer how much the poem is connecting with readers in a positive manner and to listen to comments about one's own poem in order to weigh the considerations fairly in developing the work. The fundamental difference between the words critique and criticism is that the first is a positive commentary that provides a constructive opportunity for discovery in the work; the second is based in negative response and can be hurtful. There is no place for criticism in workshop but critique is the foundation of the workshop process.

I have often heard poets who participate in ongoing workshops say that they were not planning to attend a session because they did not have any work to share. This misses the first responsibility of a workshop participant, that which each writer brings to the others. This is based on just getting one's own needs met without reciprocity. I believe it is a selfish indulgence and negates what we all give each other in the workshop process. It also negates the ability to hear something regarding craft that will teach or illustrate something that may be incorporated in one's own work as the commentary flies. As members discuss one poem, all that craft discussion is applicable to the whole. Listen well.

Two other elements of a successful workshop experience are that of nonattachment and the willingness to revise for discovery. Do not bring a piece of writing that you are delighted with and feel is complete. If you are so satisfied, fine. Send the work out to be considered for publication. Mail it to your mom. Don't bring it to workshop for a pat on the back; stretch your arm over your shoulder and give that to yourself.

Do bring a poem that you either believe is very close and could benefit from the last phase of tweaking so every word brings value to the whole or bring a poem that stymies you. Make the workshop experience productive, one that shows you new approaches and opportunities that will benefit your poetry.

You must be able to develop a thick skin, a nonattachment to the work that will give you free reign to discover what the poem wants to be more than what you believe it is. We must be the navigators, holding the map and watching the road, but we benefit by letting the poem be the driver.

This nonattachment features strongly in the profile of a mature writer, one who knows that it is not about the end product as much as it is about the process. The life of the writer is of writing and creating but many seem to think that it is about publishing and there is a crush to meet that goal that results in work that is almost meeting its own potential but falls inches short of the true finish line. Again I ask, "What is the rush?" Honor the poem first! Take the time to fully serve its potential. Be willing to cut and change, to look up words and search for the perfect synonym. Be willing to let the poem fully evolve and take its time in so doing. Be willing to allow others to offer suggestions that they recognize, potentials they witness, in the off chance their vision as a reader will give you a key to another door of possibility for the life of your poem.

And for heaven's sake, never indulge in complacency. If you cannot be open to grow and experiment, you are not a poet, you are someone who writes poems, and that difference is as vast as the two definitions I cited above. There is no place for complacency in making art.

What a Difference a Day Makes - Some Thoughts on Memoir

2011-07-15T13:03:00.000-04:00

This summer I am teaching another in a series of memoir workshops. My approach in this class is somewhat different from previous classes. Instead of offering a number of writing prompts and approaches for initiating the story lines, I asked the participants to determine a thread or theme for the entire 6 weeks, creating the goal of a completed piece or series, declaring the outcome of success and achievement from the start.

In reading memoir in the last few years, I keep encountering the profile of the privileged woman with a loyal and committed husband, a successful career (often as a freelance writer), even a great cat or dog, and a malaise that can only be satisfied by taking a year off in some exotic land or ritualistic endeavor. Of course, there is likely the complaint of a decrease in discretionary funding but it will all work out because these women also have book deals.

Another model for a successful memoir is often the pot-boiler tell-all that shares the sordid and painful details of a troubled life, the horrid things that an individual has endured and every skeleton uncloseted for the shock value and loads of book sales, especially if the author is famous or the child of someone famous.

Then there are the exceptions to these two examples, the well-written, touching, and authentic sharing of one's personal story. Anne Lamott is a prime example; Patti Smith, Stephanie Hubbard, Kathleen Norris all meet that mark as well.

Everyone's story is important. We are losing the stories of previous generations, the ties to our families, our heritage, history itself. Start your story. Start it simply...what was the first day of school like, your first job, your first date, how did you learn to cook, describe the bathroom of the home you grew up in. Dedicate a file folder on your computer. Purchase a spiral notebook or a blank journal. Don't worry about whether or not you are a "good writer." Write the way you would tell a friend. Just start...

Found Post: "Sunday - The Night Before..."

2011-07-13T23:56:00.001-04:00

In the process of tweaking the blog site, I discovered this last post that I did not publish from the school year. I still want to share the sentiment, even though it is now summer and this moment is long gone. It is like my own blogosphere time machine. Please enjoy:

This is the time of year when the drive from Syracuse downstate to teach for the week is the most subtle and encouraging. The snows are not so far behind that there is no evidence. The trees along the hills and shoulder have a hint of green, as if someone sifted pale green powder over the branches. Others are tinged red as malbec. Everything is waking up from the hibernation and the sun will soon be gold again, instead of silver.

I will start my last residency of the school year tomorrow. I will meet approximately 75 more 3rd graders at another school. I will invite them into the magical world of my poetry game and I will likely succeed in getting them all playing with me. I am probably at my best with 3rd graders. I have an appreciation for every age group with whom I work and share poetry. Each age, even generation, brings something different to the experience. But when I am in elementary schools, the imaginative play is still there. And, given this time in American education, it is probably the most valuable thing I can offer the teachers and students alike - the chance to find another way of learning with creativity and imagination. We are all hungry for it these days but it is more noticeable in our schools.

There is a thirst for the opportunity to teach with a freedom that teachers once had. So I get to deliver a few moments of play and poetry together. I get to laugh and bounce through the room and prod and pose countless questions. With 3rd graders, I get to invite them to think of themselves as quite extraordinary and offer them a special mission. Inside that new grouping of words rests the solution to a mystery. The words are not always attainable in the first reading and that is not a bad thing. That is an opportunity to put our detective skills to work.

In the "Poetry Detectives" virtual video game, the full impact of the premise is realized with elementary students. They are willing to buy my spiel...they put on their "official, imaginary, invisible Poetry Detective thinking caps" with flourish. They brandish their "official, imaginary, invisible Poetry Detective badges" as they claim their identities as word sleuths. Then they peer through their "official, imaginary, invisible Poetry Detective magnifying glasses" as they ponder every word; their first hint in the game being that there is never a word in a poem by accident. Each word the poet selects serves a purpose in determining what we think the poet wants us to know, feel, think, or understand from reading the poem.

In middle school, the video game construct works well but we lose the imaginary play that makes it so vibrant with the younger children. The competition takes precedence over the imaginary factors. The students still strive but in a different way.

High school is different still and the coolness factor creates greater hurdles to leap to create and sustain engagement. But the metaphor still works.

On Sunday evenings, I start to think of the smiles, the questions, the schedule, refreshing my memory of the school map, etc. I think about the cafeteria specials that each school is noted for. I remember the names of staff members such as the Library/Media Specialists, the school secretarial staff, the front desk security folks who check my license and welcome me in. Soon it will be time to boot up the game.