Teaching as Legacy

The magic that transpires in a classroom, no matter the age of the student, is the fuel that pushes all teachers through to satisfaction in their chosen profession. As we see the fruit of our sharing come forth in our students, even students who are adults, the knowledge that we have done good work soothes our souls and brings smiles to our faces.

As the workshops coordinator at the Syracuse YMCA's Downtown Writers Center, I have experienced the joy of curating a program for tween and teen writers called the Young Authors Academy. Having passed our third anniversary this winter, we are growing and serving the needs of talented young writers in the genres of poetry, fiction, and dramatic writing. We started with six teens who were eager to meet every Saturday morning and share work, create new work, and learn about the fundamental aspects of creative writing beyond what they could receive in school. All six of those students are now in college, two of them majoring in creative writing.

In our winter session, we enrolled 28 students, grades 6 - 11. Some of these students have been with us for nearly our entire history, week after week, when SAT prep, school musicals, marching band, track, all-county chorus or orchestra, family vacations, or the flu do not intercede. The students requested for longer seasonal sessions, expanding from four 8-week sessions to as many 10-week sessions we can fit into a calendar year. When the group grew larger, the students asked for the classes to lengthen from 90 minutes to 2 hours so they could work together longer. On Saturdays!

These are eager young talents. They are also really good to each other, for each other. They have developed keen eyes for critique and understand the distinct difference in connotation between critique and criticism. 

YAA is an inclusive environment, with the students being the first to say, "You belong here." There are young people who are home schooled, from suburban schools, and from the Syracuse City School District. We have had students from Viet Nam, Liberia, Jordan, the burbs, the inner city, students who are on the Autism spectrum. We have high achievers and those who are bored and/or disinterested in school. They are multi-talented and remarkable. And they are, in my most often stated mantra, on fire to write. This is the program that I wish I had when I was in high school. We are able to support the voices and imaginations of the next generation of writers, and so much more. It is more than writing, although we are very serious about that and they have to work hard.

We have created an anthology of their work as a fundraiser, The Library of Lost Thoughts. The funds supported the poetry award for the 2014 Central New York Book Awards, and so inspiring that they embraced the mission. We have students whose parents have studied (or do so currently) at the DWC. We have started an internship program for juniors and seniors to meet their community service component of their graduation requirements. And this summer we will welcome back one of our graduates, who will be a rising sophomore in college as our program summer intern.

Recently, two of our YAA participants, twin sisters, announced in our sharing circle that they would be moving and no longer able to join us on Saturdays. Each of their colleagues offered words of encouragement, statements of value to the whole that the young women offer, and general kindnesses as a send-off into what would be their new phase of life. It was lovely and authentic. Then we split up to go to our respective classrooms, genre-specific. The poets,  including one of the twins, followed me.

Since it was going to be the young poet's last day with us, or so we all thought, I asked her to choose the writing prompt for the day. After a brief consultation with two of her friends, she assigned, "Let's write our wills."

At first everyone was a bit surprised but this led to a short, meaningful discussion on death and impermanence, how important now, the moment is, how precious.

And then we all got busy. There was little more than the sound of pens and pencils pressing the page, tapping keys, and the chorus of seven poets breathing.

About 20 minutes later, we had each drafted our poetic last wills and testaments. One of the poets, among several who are skilled in both fiction and verse, chose a fictional persona who also had a most deft turn in the lyric tale. The others were more from the self but none was anything but heartfelt, stunning, and well-crafted. And the emotion rose, as did my pride for these wonderful beings with whom I am privileged to share what I know of writing.

I was the last to share my draft. After listening to each of these bright lights, as I always name them in my thoughts, I was just full of their language, authenticity, heart. As soon as I started the title, I was whimpering. I continued with falters and tears but got through the poem. All of us were overcome with emotion that had built through the near 2 hours together. We cried and we huddled in a hug. We declared how much we all love each other and then we sat down to breathe deeply, led by one of the marvelous young women. 

Then we told sick, stupid jokes for 10 minutes to be ready to walk back into the world. It worked.

I will give them each a copy of the poem when I see them in another week when the spring session starts. They will be ready for more work and I will be ready to shepherd them through the hills and valleys of being a poet. What more could one ask for, anyway?

So here I give you the poem. You will know the next generation of voice:

Last Will and Testament
      (as it stands today)

To my brightest lights, my brilliant young poets, 

I leave whisper phones to deliver the majesty 

of your own words directly into your own ears.

I offer the jasmine perfume of the Santa Cruz mountains 

and July’s insistent stargazer lilies as inspiration, 

the hum of wood bees searching for weakness in the rafters,

and the sway of mature maples new with leaf in May. 

I gift you with all of the language that has held me captive 

and astounded, frustrated, and empowered throughout this life.

To you, the next generation infected with this necessary 

and crucial craft, I offer every thesaurus, dictionary, 

and repository of words to heal and hound, reveal and belie

the evidence of folly and foible, wonder and confusion. 

I place the power of the pen in your nimble hands 

to blare and blaze, to confront and console, to ring

as Quasimoto’s bells of love and longing, outrage 

and remorse, laughter and sorrows, the truths 

that we, as poets, behold as self-evident

and are compelled to grace to the unseen and unknown 

among those with whom and away from we walk. 

I give you all I love, all I believe, and all I hope

to learn for you will be the ones to continue 

this ancient and immediate are. You are then stars 

the sun, the pulse of all that is true and urgent.

Keep each other whole and ready to face the world. 

Shine each other’s armor and fuel each other’s lamps. 

It is you trust and who keep me breathing.

  

        

Sometimes It Is So Simple...

On most Saturdays, just before noon, I am in my office at the YMCA's Downtown Writers Center anticipating the stream of middle- and high school writers who will burst in the door for their weekly 2-hour workshop at our Young Authors Academy. Some of these young talents have been attending since our inception in February 2012, some of them are new to the program this fall. All of them have the need to write in common. Just as their instructors have answered the call during our lives, these are true writers who surrender fully, sometimes obsessively. They are diverse and vibrant, eager and pensive. All have a flair for language and are good listeners. They are generous in their responses to each other's work and keen in their observations of the writing pieces shared at the table. They are supportive and generally really good to each other. It is a joy to witness, much less facilitate.

One thing they seem to have in common is a fascination for writing with blood, gore, and guts ... mysteries, alien adventures with gruesome hand-to-hand conflict, vampire encounters full of foreboding, zombie massacres, fairy tale characters facing certain dangers. They are fully engaged in each other's tales of mutilation and shock. Oddly, I find it humorous, as do they. They love it! They laugh! And they tell each other what they think should happen next, riffing off each other and the myriad television shows and YA novels that fuel their plots and characters.

One of our younger writers declared that her parents are growing concerned that she writes so much murder. But this is common for the age group and does not reflect that either the young ones are particularly depressed beyond typical pre-teen/teenage angst or poised to harm themselves or anyone else. Still, yesterday, as the subject came up again, and after a series of responses to the daily writing prompt reflected either depression or death, I asked why their work was so focused. It was a great conversation that started with acknowledging themselves that they are formulating a new, maturing awareness of death as an inevitable in life as well as a continual backdrop in both literature and media.

One pointed out that Shakespeare dwelled in the depths of loss and murder, as have most other "greats" in literature, with a simple postscript, I mean ... Romeo and Juliet ... HELLOOOO!"

Another declared herself an atheist and that death is a necessary knowledge and that she took solace in the thought that there is nothing after this. Another stated he did not really know what it all meant or if there was a heaven. He wasn't sure what he believed and was not certain there was a definitive answer.

The girl who stated earlier that her parents are growing concerned stated that she writes about death so much probably because she is afraid of it. This was a remarkable self-reflection for any of us but for someone of such youth to be pondering the big blank slate of loss and afterlife, it was very astute.

The conversation also gave this young woman a chance to honor the memory of someone very close to her but no longer living. She was able to move into sharing details of the person she loved deeply who was now a memory and a hole in the heart. She was fully open and honest and every other person around the table gave her all the time she needed to speak her truth. One of her colleagues suggested that we all do meditative breathing to clear the room before we all left, leading us, Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth ... again, in through the nose, out through the mouth as the room filled with our warm air mingling with the soft etude of tears as everyone consoled their friend with the respect of simply hearing her.

The clock indicated we were at the end of our session. Everyone sprang to the door, returned to their exuberant chatter, met their families in the library to head back out into the world. There were some reassuring hugs. It was real. It was honest. It was an honor to witness. Next week, they have the day off to crash from Halloween mayhem and sugar highs. In 2 weeks, they will stream in again with stories to share and blood to let on blank pages that are ready for their words.       

How Cora Thomas Keeps Me Grounded for My Week Ahead

I start my Sundays with Ms. Cora Thomas' gospel show on WAER 88.3. It is my ritual to wait for her weekly closing before putting my feet on the floor. Every week, Cora offers, "If  you put everything in the Lord's hands, eventually you will see the Lord's hands in everything." Then she plays the great Hezekiah Walker's "I Need You to Survive" and I listen, often singing along:

       I need you
          You need me
          We're all a part of God's body
          Stand with me
          Agree with me
          We're all a part of God's body
          It is his will that every need be supplied
          You are important to me
          I need you to survive

          I pray for you
          You pray for me
          I love you
          I need you to survive
          I won't harm you
          With words from my mouth
          I love you
          I need you to survive

          It is his will that every need be supplied
          You are important to me
          I need you to survive

Now, some of my friends will be concerned that I have become fundamentalist, others will stop reading just because I said "God" and "pray" publicly. But I have been concerned about the discourses of late, in the media, on Facebook, the general tone of attack, of snarkiness, as if that is an admirable quality. The fact is, fear pervades everything.

Over the holidays, Ernesto Mercer, wonderful poet and conscious being living in DC, posted a stunning and simple reminder of the grave issues none of us who has the privilege to pull out their smartphones and check notifications and like each other's statuses has to face any given day. Yes, I used the hot button word "privilege." There is a lot of vitriol being spilled over the notion of privilege.

I listened to the news once Cora's show ended, "...I need you to survive..." still my echo. Then I listened to NPR Sunday Edition. There are bombings all over the Mideast. There was an interview with a man who has willingly gone deep into the atrocity of the war in the Congo to make the rest of the world possibly pay attention. 

I thought of the Sudanese children who I teach on Thursdays as I heard an update on the painful atrocities occurring right now in South Sudan. I thought of my Jordanian poet, now an 8th grader and member of the Young Authors Academy, who traveled home in early summer to visit family and spent the week cooking for Syrian refugees alongside her cousins, aunts, and other family members. 

I have been tracking Fukujima and the flow of radiation throughout our global water and air, and we haven't seen the worst of it. I have been considering that human trafficking is still a daily experience worldwide, that slavery is still alive in so many parts of the world. The polarity of the earth is shifting as the ice cap melts. There are monster storms and record-breaking sub-zero blasts over the top half of the nation. There are wildfires. There are rapes and murders. There is so much to be concerned about.

And I reflect on all of this from the relative safety of the beautiful home in which I live. I struggle to pay the mortgage but I am warm this moment and I will find a way to make everything work. I am living in relative comfort and faced with opportunity, even when I most fear that all is lost.

I am privileged...and not necessarily because the level of melanin in my skin is so low. That does mean that there are elements of advantage that I enjoy, yes. But from my underemployed, under-educated, 60-year old woman's perspective, having been self-supporting since I was 17, with no health care since I was laid off 5 years ago, and of a certain age that is not necessarily attractive to employers, etc., that privilege may be a tad bit limited. Here, I am opening myself to vitriol by saying any of this but we have to remember that women in America still do not have equal rights by law, so inherently our privilege is restrained. Seniors are not respected, in general. I am a woman at the door of "senior" and standing on very shaky ground. And Lord knows I don't have tenure.

I have been posting quotes from Nelson Mandela because I have been listening to the conversations around Ani DiFranco's extremely unfortunate, unthinking error. But I have to say that, although I do understand the need for us, all of us, to be hyper-vigilant in addressing injustice and racism, at what point are we going to agree to meet in the middle and heal the deep wounds? The scars of the Middle Passage and slavery in America will always be there. But do we need to keep standing still in the effort of developing trust enough to move forward in peace? We need each other to survive. As long as we maintain a stance of distrust, fear, veiled hatred and suspicion, we will not survive.

As a white woman, I am aware that I am always held suspect as probably clueless, a likely racist, maybe well-intentioned but can't possibly understand, at best. When am I going to "turn white?" At the Split This Rock poetry conference a couple of years ago, during a panel on white writers writing on race, there was a clarion call regarding the panelists' fear of "not getting it right." One of the writers was overtly challenged when she released a book based on a famous lynching, told that she did not have the right to write about that because she was white. Ironically, there was also a white man hanged in that event. 

Why would it be that we, as humans, cannot examine atrocity and racism if we do not have the "right" skin tone? Don't we need to share the truth? Is it not possible to have compassion and empathy, if not direct knowledge, of the wounding? And don't we move toward the goals of the great Nelson Mandela and Martin Luther King, Jr., if we are able to put our fears on hold and presume, for just a moment, that maybe there are similarities, or at least opportunities to educate and understand, together? Do we remember the Freedom Riders?

The myth of a post-racial America is just that. We are mired ever deeper in the dangers that fear and racism create. We are falling further and further into both. I see tweets and FB posts that are disparaging of others, often couched as humor. This has gotten some media folks in some deep shit, because snarky overstepped both propriety and respect. And Ani, not withstanding her obvious lack of consciousness in allowing her producer to confirm a booking for her retreat at a plantation site, has been deemed "a racist oppressor." The feminist icon has fallen from her perch in one seriously flawed business move because she failed to be hyper-vigilant in recognizing how deep the wound is. It seems a no-brainer to me that the venue was not a viable consideration but does she need to be publicly stoned? Perhaps she had fallen victim to believing the post-racial America myth herself. I wonder how Sekou Sundiata would respond, were he still walking among us? Would he yank his work from Righteous Babe? Would he say, "Oh Ani, you know you messed up, right?..." Would he accept her apology?

There are many other incidents and comments around this general theme that I have been mulling over for a long time, way beyond this week, but I have probably gotten myself into enough trouble just for saying this much. So I close with a few more thoughts:

"If you want to make peace with your enemy, you have to work with your enemy. Then he becomes your partner." Nelson Mandela (From Long Walk to Freedom, 1995)

"Great anger and violence can never build a nation. We are striving to proceed in a manner and towards a result, which will ensure that all our people, both black and white, emerge as victors.” Nelson Mandela (Speech to European Parliament, 1990)

And: "I won't harm you with words from my mouth...I love you...I need you to survive."  Thank you, Ms. Cora, for another Sunday start.