The Buttermilk Torture - Middleschool Instruction at Its Best

I have been immersed in middleschool energy since January. There are those who do not appreciate this age group but I love this age for many reasons. And I love how I can goof on them in ways that give the students new perspectives. That is my job. I am asking students to look at the world, to look at language, to look at themselves in expansive ways that may be outside of the norm. Adolescence is an age in which individuals are very self-focused so using that focus as a tool to open eyes to a broader view is very exciting.

Yesterday, as a part of study of the wonderful memoir poem, "Knoxville, Tennessee" by Nikki Giovanni, I stopped at the grocery store at 7:20 a.m. to find foods referenced in the poem. Okra was not available fresh so I decided I would use the internet for photos instead. I had to bother two produce department staff for a bunch of collard greens. I found disposable cups and a quart of buttermilk for taste tests.

Ah...the taste tests. What drama! The faces as the cups were raised to lips to sample the half-teaspoon of the liquid were priceless. The retching, the hands grasping their own necks, the groans, it was all predictable and humorous. This is not an adventurous age for culinary experimentation but they did indulge me. There were those who were more polite about the experience. Each class also had at least one kid with a huge smile declaring, "Hey, I like it!" Brownie points for those young gourmands!

I have been working with this poem for nearly 3 years at all grade levels. We have wonderful conversations about family traditions, about church hats, about our favorite foods, etc. My personal favorite conversation is always about the origins of okra and how it got to the North American continent. I speak to the imaginations and empathy of students to consider the courage and tenacity of that one person kidnapped hundreds of years ago from their native African soil who managed to cling to a pod of okra all the way through the horrid ordeal of the Middle Passage to bring that one element of home and life before identity was stolen from them. I thank my mother for giving me the taste for this vegetable and I thank whomever it was who brought it west to plant in new soil so that now, I can pick those small pods from the bin at the store and prepare them for my dinner.

I do not thank my grandmother for making me drink buttermilk on a hot summer night when I was very young. I don't love it. But I do love asking students to experience its taste and select similes and adjectives that reflect their opinions. "Nasty," "disgusting," "old cheese" are common. I had to laugh as I asked the one student who said, "It takes like sweaty armpits" just when it was that he had that experience. He caught my humor, thankfully. He did not ask for seconds on the buttermilk though.

And, since every teacher I work with gives me a new tool or perspective on my work, I thank my colleague who keeps a bag of Dum-Dum lollipops in her drawer as rewards when earned. I will never do the buttermilk sampling again without that vital tool!

I Am Confused! Blaming Teachers Is Like Blaming Privates for the War!

A quick note before I run to my next class:  today's news broadcast that the state of California is issuing pink slips to 22,000 teachers, on top of the 16,000 laid off last year. This is not the only state facing this sort of difficult decision and who will suffer? Other teachers and all students!

I recently looked on line to see a news headline stating that the Kansas City School District is closing half of its schools due to budget issues and the economy. Additionally, I hear the President calling for greater accountability, proposing privatization of schools and more charter schools, as well as creating a climate of competition for much needed federal funds for effective education of our youth.

New York State schools are unexpectedly losing millions and millions of dollars in the middle of the school year because our state is nearly bankrupt and the state legislators are embattled once again.

I am a huge fan of our President but I think that the current education policy that this administration is developing is something that he has DEAD WRONG. How can teachers accomplish effective education of our youth as states are going bankrupt and the local and federal funding is so much less than is necessary to meet the needs?

Teachers are being blamed for so much beyond their own control.Teachers are expected to teach today's youth with an untenable challenge of:

• a huge increase in the number of students who are within the Autism Spectrum;
• high divorce rate and split families;
• violence in our communities that is unprecedented, making even our schools unsafe;
• an economy that has likely impacted families everywhere that undermines the safety and well being of the youth in desks before them;
• emotional, developmental, and learning disability needs;
• lack of technology to meet the 21st century requirements;
• some teachers do not even have textbooks for their students (they have to photocopy lessons and generally with a restriction on how much paper and copier use they have access to during the school year); and/or
• poor nutrition for students of all economic classes that affects learning and brain function.

We revere the tall man who can dunk or hit a ball and pay him mega-millions! We see physicians bill outrageous amounts for moments with us when we are sick. We see financial and insurance executives earn tens of millions in bonuses on top of their multi-million dollar salaries. Teachers who mold the minds of the future may earn $50K?! What?! And then those same teachers will spend hundreds of their own dollars to supply their students and classrooms with paper, pencils and pens, highlighters and markers, glue sticks, books, construction paper, rulers, instructional supplies and posters for their room, maybe even their own chalk to write on the blackboard. Add to it, tissues and hand sanitizer for the flu season that seems to be year round now.

I am confused. Department of Education Secretary Arnie Duncan and President Obama are placing the onus on the teacher.  Do we blame the low-ranked enlisted man or woman for the course of any war? Do we blame the secretarial pool for the failures of Wall Street?! Do we blame the groundskeepers when the football team has a losing season? In a blog and letter I emailed to his office last spring, I challenged Arne Duncan to send a check to every teacher in a public school for their personal annual outlay as a part of the stimulus package. No answer. Now they will sell teachers out for the privatization of our public education?! I am waiting for definitive rebuttal from the teachers' unions as well. I repeat...I am baffled. Can someone show me the logic?  It totally escapes me.

A Brief Visit Home

Last week, after 2 days of my start with middle school students, encounters with the demons that plague classes with substitutes because the teachers are out, wondering why I even do this work, the snows hit. The storm of all storms for the Northeast. It was unlike any winter storm in 30 years for New York, New Jersey, parts of Pennsylvania, all places not as equipped as Central New York in dealing with the repercussions. It was also that heavy snow that is more water than ice, causing much damage.

Wednesday morning was certainly a snow day. I relished the fact that I was awake early, coffee in hand, and a day to myself in a home other than mine so I had fewer distractions, or so I thought. I spent a great deal of the day tending the fire. I was all Laura Ingalls Wilder in my brain. I had my knitting, a number of books, my journal, and then there was the artful act of observing the snow globe world through the window. 

Thursday morning the weather seemed just as ominous but my computer did not show a closing on the school web site. How could this be?! It was horrid outside. Then I realized that my page was not loading properly...magically the red font of a weather emergency displayed itself as the connection was made to the greater world. Day 2 and this one, I slipped back into bed for a nap. What luxury. And the day of fire tending would rest before me once I rose. I settled into a lovely peace.

Thursday night I thought I would be able to take a train from Poughkeepsie to NYC on Friday morning to attend one of the last of the Association of Teaching Artists board meetings of my waning term of service. Most of my colleagues had made it safely into the city from their homes and since I would not be in the classroom, as I had anticipated, I was delighted that I would be able to attend after all.

But that notion was put to rest by an unplowed driveway and a plow guy with a broken plow, coupled with the dreadful weight of that wet heaviness that was deeper than the hubcaps of my little car that I often describe as Shaquille O'Neal's rollerskate.

My friend Lani, with whom I was staying, had cancelled her plans to drive to Boston for the weekend in an act of prudence. Since Saturday marked the celebration of Purim, Lani was going to bake her famous hamatashen and she agreed to teach me.

I love when I get to be student. I watched her mix the dough, stir the ingredients and cook them down for different fillings, then the rolling of the dough, the portioning, the careful press to make the triangles that are the essence of this tradition. I tried the rolling and Lani was patient. I know she had knots in her stomach. It was a good time for her to wash some of the mixing bowls and pans while I made a mess of my first attempt. And when we cut our circles from the sweet thin dough, my little triangles hardly looked like an adult was involved. I felt like a 5-year old again but I also saw the benefit of experience.

The house filled with the perfumes of cookies baking, coffee in the pot, and fires at both ends of the house. There was music. Lani told me of her joy in walking through the halls where she works delivering the pastries to friends and colleagues. She shared the Purim story with me. And we sampled all the flavors. Yummy they were.

The universe made the decisions for us. We needed more to stay put than to wander out. In the afternoon, we went out to play in the snow for a little while, as well as survey the damage to the trees from the weight of the precipitation. Lani declared that she had never made a snow man as she packed a snowball. She is from Los Angeles. Snow men are not part of the culture. Since I have not made a snow man since I was approximately 9 or 10, of course we had to put ourselves to the task.

We giggled like kindergarteners. We rolled and patted our "snow chick" because it was obvious that she had a gender. We made her beautiful, a talisman to the day of peace and grounding. She has already melted but we took pictures so she is immortal. Lani made snow angels but the snow was deep and she needed to be pulled out. I was full of laughter.

When I returned to school on Monday, it had been 5 days since I had seen the teachers and students. Many of the kids had shoveled for cash and were proud of their industry. I think in an odd way, many of them were ready to be back in school, back in their routines. My routine and process was back in place as well, although I had to regroup five different groups of students and bring all of the brainstorming to the forefront. But I was rested and optimistic.

Three days later, I got in my car to drive home for 4 days in my own space. I did banking,  paid bills, took my car in for well-overdue maintenance, had brunch with my friend Jennifer, watered my plants. I read a month's worth of posts on my friend Jill's blog, as well as entries in Linda's. I made bread in the bread machine as soon as I got home. I realize now that I need much more respite than I used to require. Perhaps that is where inspiration resides. Maybe that is the cave where the poems rest. And that is where I center and remember who I really am.

Today's Homework

Today's Homework
      for Juan


His was a simple request.
Can you write a poem...right now?
I faltered for a moment. 
We had just met, his class before me
a pool of new faces, of challenges.
Why should they trust me?


Instead, I offered to create a poem
as homework.
I have homework every day.
I would make words tie together
in knots and rhythm to weave
verse as currency to buy attention.


The young man is like so many.
A cloud hides his light, the brightness
shielded from exposure, from ridicule.
I question often.
Why are classrooms full of storms
and flannel gray veils?
Where do brilliance and curiosity reside?


The next day he asks
Miss, did you do your homework?
I give him my blank stare.
My cloud has settled in.
The night before, I was as distracted
as leaves blowing
on a November morning.
I had forgotten.
I was them.


Another day, again he called for my work,
evidence that I, too, pay attention.
It's only fair.
My requests seem simple enough.
My assumption is bold.
Respect, engage, create.
I face the clouds, the gray pall hovering
over the throngs of faces behind those desks.
I pray to bring sun to a dull day.

Pajamas Inside Out and Backwards...

It is every kid's dream and we do not outgrow it...the morning that the announcement confirms hopes and suspicions that school is closed and there is no need to scramble out the door. Today, it happened again for the district in which I am teaching this week. Honestly, I am a lucky charm for snow days. Especially this time of year. This is the third year in a row, in fact, that on a Wednesday in late winter, while I am teaching at this particular school, that the snows have seized the day.

I love the gift of the extra time to do other things, believe me. I appreciate not leaving my host's home at 6:30 a.m. to make the drive to start first period at 7:45, the faces of tired and semi-interested adolescents before me as I start the "Georgia Show," to have one day to myself. That seems decadent and delicious in the midst of my schedule. 
 

But, as a teaching artist, it also means a day lost in my process, as well as creates the need to figure out how to reschedule everything or lose a day's income when the billing is finalized. In some schools, a snow day is not excluded. Other schools will not pay the lump sum. It depends on many factors. So a snow day is also a mixed blessing.
 

This morning, I am tending the fire in the fireplace, sipping a third cup of coffee, catching up on my blog, and getting ready to finish reading a great book by an icon and wayshower in the worlds of poetry and arts in education, Richard Lewis. Richard was honoring the poetry that is inherent in children's hearts when I was becoming a poet myself in the early 60s. The book for the morning is when thought is young:  Reflections on Teaching and the Poetry of the Child. 

 

Another of my very favorites is Richard's anthology of poetry from students of English-speaking countries, Miracles. This book is out of print but I have consistently found it on line used. Although published in the mid-60s, the poetry is still relevant. It also depicts quality poetry that can be created by young minds, young writers. Too often we rely on adult words to fulfill student interest. It is so easy for them to then draw the judgment that they are unable to do what the grownups can do. With this resource of delightful and insightful poems by youth, it supports the assertion that our students can make poems that others want to read and that they, themselves, can be proud of sharing.
 

Still at the work in 2010, generous with his gifts and insights, gentle of voice and nature, Richard has given me the perfect fireside reading while the world outside is all aflutter with flakes and I feel like a small figurine inside a snow globe.

The Road Is Calling Once Again

I have been home for 2 weeks after 5 weeks of traveling to teach. It was a wonderful stint but the time at home was much needed. The grounding, waking in my own bed, the chance to clear at least the bulk of the huge piles on my desk, to have dinner with friends, water the plants, all healings from which I have received much benefit.

However, it flew by. There was always work to do with all of the side jobs. I saw some of my friends but not nearly the number with whom I would have liked to share some of the miracle tales I witnessed in my work with children. I had editing jobs to do, work on my collaboration project, Comstock Review editing and typing to get the issue ready for design, friends in the hospital (some of whom I could not even get to see). I also spent three afternoon sessions with 3rd grade poets who were my true Valentines.  It has been a blur already. Wow.

Sunday, after finalizing the pressing deadlines before me and hosting a poetry reading this evening at the Downtown Writer's Center, I will pack up the car with all I will need for several weeks downstate. I will first drive to Elmira, NY, to address the Southern Tier Reading Council for their annual tea. This is a wonderful opportunity to meet many people who are dedicated to the art of teaching and the love of language. Then I will head the other direction on Route 17 to Orange County. 

Monday morning early the cycle starts again. Three weeks of middle school instruction are before me, five classes a day, five different teachers, an average of 100 new students per week, taking me to well over 1000 students I have already met and imagined with so far this school year. It takes stamina, it requires a great deal of flexibility and innovative thinking, it necessitates being able to respond in the moment, to be present with each student, and the ability to assess a situation and classroom temperament within moments.

But this is great work and I have finally achieved the ability to be fully satisfied in the work that provides the home that soothes me upon each return. This is a blessing and I am full of gratitude. Have a wonderful weekend everyone. Take a moment to notice the poem that is your own life.

When Teachers Are Engaged, All Are Engaged

I am nearly done with 2 weeks in classes of 3rd graders and what a blast it has been, although I am really whooped. With three or four contact sessions per class, four self-contacted special ed. classes and seven standard classes, I have taught nearly 230 students in 10 school days. Each class has a completely different temperament. This is particularly noticeable with the classes of students with special needs. What this work demands is an ability to be very flexible and to be able to assess needs and capabilities very quickly in order to adapt to the class for a lesson that will keep the students engaged.

Over the years, I have heard many teaching artists comment on the difference between the teacher who contributes to the process or activity, the teacher who models lifelong learning and enthusiasm for what the artist or visitor brings to their classroom vs. the teacher who thinks that our presence in their room is the gift of down time, paper-marking time, email time. Anything but teaching time. When the host teacher is involved with my lesson, it is always a better experience for us all. Students will mimic what they see. Even if the teacher is sitting with them as I teach but that teacher is marking papers, the students see a lack of attention and replicate it. In some cases, they may even shuffle papers from their desks and doodle as well.

Basically, my work is not just what I do with the students but the methods and activities that I have developed for teachers to use when I am gone. The teachers who recognize that this is an opportunity to add elements to their own pedagogy, as well as to share skills with me, are the teachers I most enjoy and who probably most appreciate my work with their students. I learn from the teachers with whom I teach every day. They give me new approaches for everything that I have to do in schools. I hope that I bring them the value that I intend to share.

I have always seen my work in the classroom as a three-way learning experience, when it is at its best. I had many such experiences these last 2 weeks and I look forward to next year, when I will hopefully be invited to return to the school with even more to bring to students and teachers both.

Each Day an Adventure, Something Else to Learn

I am just 2 days shy of returning to my own bed. I have been on the road for most of the past month, home long enough to do laundry, check the mail, and sleep a couple of fitful nights before packing up and heading out again. I have 2 weeks ahead of me and I am ready to reconnect to my own space, see if I can resurrect some of my poor plants. Perhaps I will be more accustomed to the profound emptiness that lives there now that my beloved cat and friend, Butch, is gone.

Butch was a legend among the many poets and friends who have stayed with us, either in my perch on the third floor of Mrs. Powers' house on Victoria Place for 10 years, or the 10 years since that I have lived in my home. It was 10 years ago last week that a throng of friends moved me from the apartment to this house, quite an ordeal. Butch and my other cat, Angel, were quite disturbed by it all. Angel retreated to the basement for a month. Butch took to finding his way and claiming the space.

Butch was a big boy, born into the wrong body. Some golden lab somewhere was seriously confused because the cat that should have been in Butch's body was switched at birth. He loved water. He followed me everywhere. And he was relentless in loving.

Right now, Butch has been what I have been calling Walt Disneyed. In upstate NY in winter, there is no way to bury a cat. So the day he passed, after a lengthy hospice through the holidays and into the new year, I bathed his body and wrapped him well, then placed the bag that holds him in his bath sheet shroud in a nook in the chest freezer I bought this summer to keep him safe until spring when the ground softens.

The other day, I opened a can of tuna and there was no one to give the liquid to as a treat. With my teaching schedule, I haven't had much time to adjust to the loss in that kind of immediacy.

Butch came to live with me just a few weeks after I attended my first National Poetry Slam in 1994. I was doing secretarial work at the time and I told several of my friends at work that I was going to do whatever I could to create my life centered on my identity as poet, which I had put on a shelf for nearly a decade.

Now, more than 15 years later, that kitten grew from a frantic little maniac, to a big bruiser, to a distguished older gentleman, to an old, old man. He departed at a time when I am solely supporting myself as a teaching poet and my success in writing has been evident as well. I have gone from just returning to writing to my present self, and Butch was there for the entire journey. Now he leaves me on my own. 

He was a great guy. He made a warm spot for me on the bed before I retired on winter nights. He filled my lap with bone-strengthening purrs. Butch loved me unconditionally, and he loved my friends. He will be missed by many. I was lucky to know him. Nite nite Butchie Boy. And thanks loads...

Ebb, Flow, and the Full Moon

So here's the deal. As artists who choose to work in education, we are often freelancers, independent contractors, consultants. We have walked out on some shaky limb for one of any number of reasons. And we need to be paid on a timely basis or we contribute more to the mess that the economy is in. But it is worth the frustration to have this work now and this schedule. It just means that the universe has some smoothin' out to do...

Nuff said...nite nite...

Beautiful Learning Minds

I have ended my school days this week with a self-contained class of children with special needs, just four, plus their teacher and aide. When I walk into a classroom, I have no preconceived notions and when I am scheduled for special education classes, I have to assess the potential and adapt my lesson plan or activity on the spot. I am fortunate that I have a skill for improvisation and response in the moment. It comes in handy in any teaching circumstance, actually.

First, let me say how much I appreciate the commitment of these two educators to their students. I do not mention the teachers I work with by name, nor the districts in which I am working, in order to protect the identity of students, and I wish I could break my own rule and call out the teachers. But let me, instead, just say that the primary teacher is in her second year and I see her exhibiting so much authenticity in her relationship with the students in her room.

My first visit, of four scheduled, I realized very quickly that the four young faces before me wanted to be a part of my activity but I needed to change my approach quickly. I knew that we had to move, do something kinesthetic, and I took cues from the teacher. We made a river with the words in the Alphabet Poem, after the search throughout the room for the letters they needed to find.

The teacher was able to see her students recalling the learning they had achieved this school year so far from a perspective she never gets to have, as participant observer. They kept giving answers that showed they got it. The teacher and aide were totally surprised at the responses. And encouraged. Then we did some dancing and all of us had an opportunity to laugh and stretch together.

Day 2, the students showed how much they remembered from the day before and it exceeded our expectations again. We danced like animals in the poem, we danced like birds flying over rivers, streams, ponds, we danced like we were waves hitting the beach. Then we all did the hula, at the prompting of one of the four young ones. Again, the teacher witnessed her children in moments of great success.

Day 3, we started by reviewing the Alphabet Poem to talk about other words that started with key letters. As the students started saying what they know about words, the sentences they spoke were so poetic, I started listing them on the interactive white board, realizing that we were writing a poem together. It turned out so wonderfully. And the teacher and I taught each other new skills on the board as wel cpatured this poetry from the lips of the kids. We did happy dances as each of the animals we discussed as we composed our poem. Again, the teacher was surprised and delighted by the responses she heard.

Today was my fourth day, I returned to the classroom to four eager learners. We read their favorite dinosaur book together. We surprised the aide returning after a day off with the poem that illustrated so much achievement. We celebrated the poem and then we sat to draw the illustrations of what each remembered of the poem and the pix were fabulous. I cannot download them for some reason this evening so it will have to wait until tomorrow but I promise you will see some terrific art!

I left them to return to their routine after 4 days of play with words, movement, joy. But we won't forget each other and by my just joining them for a few days and changing the focus, we all saw these beautiful children as beautiful learning machines. I hope that they saw themselves as successful as well.

Little Miracles Every Day

My busy season has started. I am blessed with bookings from January through mid-April and perhaps more will unfold. I lost a couple of weeks that were in the plan due to a school rethinking its budget but I will still be ok. I also have gotten a handful of smaller opportunities that replace a portion of that income so all will work out, I am sure.

This is the way I live now, independent and with trust that all is well and the highest good for all involved will unfold. The pace of my life is still busy often but not frantic as it was and I have more time for life in its fullest. I am learning how to pace my income and outgo to get me through the times with no work and it is remarkable that it has worked.

Tomorrow I finish my current residency with 6th graders and a teacher I love working with so I can spend 2 nights in my home and head out of town again to another school in a different part of the state. I have to say goodbye to about 75 students who have given me their trust and respect. They have also truly engaged in the creative process that I have invited them to share with me. This has been a great experience for us all.

I have seen children who never apply themselves in class produce poems they are proud of, stay focused, and complete tasks. I have seen a student offer to partner with a student with seeming cognitive challenges during a peer review session and not receive input herself, just to be a good classmate. I have witnessed young men who rarely share their emotions write of the death of their beloved grandparents, their favorite pets, the challenge of their own chemotherapy in facing cancer. I have watched as young ladies who have been witnesses to domestic violence speak openly in verse and somehow strengthen themselves in the process.

These students have been patiently investigating a single poem by Nikki Giovanni with me for 3 days, unfolding meaning for themselves and learning new skills. They have learned how the brain will interpret language in a completely different way just because a series of line breaks have shifted a sentence into smaller phrases, making way for breath.

And they have laughed with me as well as at me, which was always the appropriate response. I will leave them tomorrow and we will all be sad for the parting. But I trust that I leave behind something of value and they have all given me treasures I will hoard for those days when I think I haven't accomplished a thing. Thanks to my host teacher for the amazing educator she is and for inviting me to gain so much from her students. I am honored, grateful, and blessed beyond all comprehension. This is my life and livelihood. Imagine that!

Haiku Reflection of My Day

Elementary

school trombone lesson - or geese

farting overhead?

I couldn't resist...sorry. HA!

Back in the World!

This fall I had another nasty bout of bronchitis that had me housebound for most of a month, except for the teaching that was required. I retreated from the world while I tried to heal my body. I left the computer up in my office and broke my Facebook addiction. I neglected my blog because I had no energy for creativity. I did manage to knit a great deal and am now well versed in the latest season of Project Runway and multiple reruns of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition and The Supernanny. I also admit that Jo Frost has very helpful suggestions in communication and discipline!

The fall was a gentle incline towards the busy schedule I will be keeping for the rest of the 09-10 school year. I had three different teaching experiences that were primarily unrelated in material and focus. I taught a discussion seminar for the Honors Department at Syracuse University called "Reading the World," a course for the Downtown Writer's Center on contemporary and emerging African-American poets, and a residency with 4th graders in a Syracuse elementary school. It was a light schedule compared to my usual pace and I could manage to get through most of my instruction without coughing myself to death and without infecting anyone. The rest of the time, I was a slug in the house with little capacity to think, read, walk the stairs, little appetite. It was a mess. But my teaching was terrific because I love my work and the students, whether they were 10 or in their 20's, even 60's, always bring energy and enthusiasm to my life.

The 4th graders were so wonderful. We worked together to create autobiographical poems that showed the kids with light, humor, poignancy, and their best efforts to use language to their ability. The teachers were wonderful to work with as well, supporting my efforts while I was on site and completing the tasks from each successive lesson to have students ready upon my return each week.

Teachers have to make a lot of room for an artist such as myself to come into their classrooms. There are may needs and demands with the school calendar, expectations for learning, tests (the damned tests) and more tests, particularly in elementary school. I dearly appreciate that my work with their students not only creates work for them as well but that the routine is shaken to the core for whatever time my residency lasts. I also appreciate that the teachers with whom I work value what I bring to their students enough to take on all that it requires.

This week and next, I am working with 3rd and 4th graders. We are engaged in a terrific experience in which I have set up the premise that we are all participants in a living video game called "Poetry Detectives." They are totally on board and we are having a lot of fun.

And today I got to have the same moment of bliss that the entire school experienced: SNOW DAY announced. Back to sleep, an unexpected decadent day to myself to catch up on other work and gaze out the window at the expanse of new snow.

Adults Ought to Be Ashamed

This summer, I have witnessed the most offensive, appalling behavior by adults in the face of the political climate. I am ashamed of the behaviors of adults evident in the news media. The modeling of screaming in a public forum or on a panel on a commentary of the daily news, of mocking and taunting those with opposing views, of lying and chastising to support one's own belief system, of unadulterated hatred and small-mindedness, all of these behaviors have been highly broadcast over the airwaves of America's media.

There have been a multitude of bullying activities in which some citizens have accused other citizens of being "unAmerican." There have been frightening correlations of our President to heinous leaders from the past who have exterminated human beings in unfathomable numbers. There have been firearms carried to public gatherings where our democratically elected President was going to speak. If this had happened at any other time in our history, I firmly believe these individuals would have been immediately arrested as threats to the President and our national security.

In our schools, there are comprehensive programs to combat bullying in the schoolyard, in the classroom, on the school bus, and in the neighborhood. But what is the point if we see political pundits and politicians bullying citizens, other colleagues, and our President? Last night, in a shameful act, an elected member of the House of Representatives disrupted the President's speech to scream the accusation that our President was lying. WHAT?! And he was permitted to remain in the room. Would we allow a student in any assembly in any school in our country to stay in the auditorium if he or she screamed at a principal as that administrator addressed the school population?! I would posit the answer is NO!

Another offensive behavior that no one stops is the habit members of both houses of Congress have developed of playing with their Blackberries and I-Phones while the President of the United States of America is addressing them about critical issues of our nation. In our schools, we are seeing a challenge for teachers and hall monitors in curtailing the use of cell phones, I-Pods, and other media during the school day. How are we to enforce such rules when any student can cite that Senator So-and-So or Representative Who-Gives-a-Shit was sitting in the most significant meeting space in our nation beyond the White House, tweeting their own views to the world rather than affording the attention that anyone who holds the elected office of President should be able to command?

Why is it not a rule that the phones and PDAs must be silenced and left in the offices of our elected officials when they are being addressed by our President? We make it a supposed rule that students must pay attention and be respectful of teachers and administrators, of their elders, but are their elders doing the same and modeling respectful behavior? Where is the model for thoughtful citizenship in the media for our youth?! Where is the truth of freedom of speech as one person is broadcast taunting another for an opposing view?Where are we modeling an environment of safety for personal opinion? And where are our youth seeing images of respectful behavior in public discourse?

Our President has been the foremost in modeling openness, tolerance, willingness to listen to all sides, even in receiving insulting heckling from an elected official who should be offering respect to the office that President Obama holds by a majority of the American electorate. Thank you, Mr. Obama, for your temperance while under attack. You, more than any in the glaze of media lights, show our youth how to comport oneself with self respect and to treat others in a respectful manner. I hope they pay more attention to you than to the many boors who jam our airwaves and public conversation.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

One of my most ardent followers admonished me back channel because I had not posted in a month. I guess this is more than a place to think in language, there is a certain responsibility to it. The lesson of discipline is one of the ones I am most incorporating at this time. And a responsibility to my readers.

I am learning more about my attention inconsistencies and my compulsive nature, how to make these aspects of myself tools, learning how to make them work for me rather than act as barriers and speed bumps.

This was the first summer I have had to myself to do pretty much what I want in 30 years or so. I started my first job 39 years ago this past summer. Most summers since then, I have had to work in some form. This summer I had the ability:

• to sort out a lot on the interior world,
• to notice the world with patient consciousness,
• to start the serious organization of all of the chaos and clutter around me,
• to journal regularly,
• to laugh,
• to walk,
• to read for pleasure,
• to listen to the cicada and watch the birds at the feeders for hours,
• to pull weeds,
• to sniff as the Stargazer lilies beg for attention...

...all this and more. I realized that, in my life as a poet and human, this is my work now. There was a moment in which I recognized that I finally understand the premise of being in the moment. I pray that I never lose this awareness. It is where I find my peace.

The past year has been one of the most significant and growthful years of my life. I reconnected with who I truly am. I examined my intention in all things, and I did a critical review of my work as a teaching artist. I rested and reflected on my year past and now I am readying for the upcoming school year. I will return to classrooms with teachers whom I admire and with whom I love working. I will meet new teachers and students. I will see students I know who have had a year's worth of development since last school year. I look forward to how much I will grow again this year.

And next summer, I will do it again. This is the cycle of my life now. I am so grateful. I am so blessed.

Namaste.

Self-Reflection in the Craft of Teaching Artistry

Last year, one of the teachers I was working with had to miss one of my days in her class to attend a professional development opportunity. She asked if I would mind if her student teacher videotaped one of the classes so she would not miss out on that part of the process of my residency. I consented eagerly and at the end of the school year she mailed me a lovely DVD of my classroom experience.

I admit that I do not like pictures of myself, like most humans, and I am very self-critical when I view them. For this reason, I avoided my movie self-portrait until the other day when I was working on some promotional materials. I faced my own reluctance and started watching to see if there were some pieces I could edit out to include in my project. I confess that I did not figure that part out yet, the copy/edit, but I watched a good portion of the DVD and I value the experience greatly.

I got a chance to watch myself from outside of myself. I saw how I generally speak with students, how I take their questions and explain what I believe I know about language, communication, poetry, and humanity. I saw my humor and my expression. I pretended I was a student sitting in the classroom experiencing this for the first time and I discovered that I believe myself to be good at what I do. This was so liberating. I am so invested in my career as a teaching professional and as a creative artist. To see myself in action gives me the impetus to start my planning and research for the school year ahead. Like it or not, it is August and time is a fleet adversary. I will be in schools soon and there is much to do to be ready for all those questions, all those discussions. I will enter the academic year with a touch more confidence in myself because one teacher valued me enough to not miss what I did with her kids and to share the evidence with me. Thanks to Jan Bubb! You rock!

I Have Always Adored Signage

The other morning I decided to initiate the practice of daily writing prompts. I had to look something up in the fabulous collection of writing exercises compiled by Behn and Twichell, The Practice of Poetry the day before. I have referenced particular exercises in the book many times and I have it as a recommendation to teachers but I have not approached it as a writer in a long time and certainly not a daily practice. So I decided to go through it and endeavor to complete each exercise while maintaining a daily discipline.

The first exercise in the book is from Ann Lauterbach, called "First Words." Here is the result of that morning's response, quoted verbatim, no edits, just out of the brain:

I remember that I was thrilled to be learning to read. I was barely 5 years old and it made sense to me - the decoding process. The letters were sound symbols and I was deciphering those legends to make patterns that translated into thought and understanding. It was incredible.

I was driving with Daddy out Teall Avenue from the Rugby Apartments in his little maroon bubble of a 1960 vintage Saab with the gray scratchy wool covered bucket seats. I loved my dad. My mom had married him when I was 4 and it was so much fun to have a dad who laughed and hugged, so completely different from the austere, demanding chisel of stone my mother had divorced. So we were off somewhere together, just the two of us in the little bubble car, turning from Teall Avenue onto the cut-over street towards GM Circle when I saw approximately five words on a billboard that opened up to my young mind like a treasure chest. I read them out loud like a chant. Daddy was so surprised. So was I...and thrilled. I understood that something was very different in my life. I had discovered a form of freedom I had never known. It was so marvelous. I tried another billboard, the names of businesses on the buildings we passed. I don't know if he was being driven nuts by my verbal outbursts or if he was amused. Perhaps he was somewhat overwhelmed by bearing witness to this unfolding miracle that the capacity of my brain was expressing. He was very new to fatherhood, having now an infant and a child ready for kindergarten at the same time. I bet he felt overwhelmed by it all.

I also figure that his love was so strong that the fear was overridden by joy for the family he now had, the family to which he was responsible. One small reward, driving with a curly headed laughing girl blurting out the words of each billboard like they were scripture...and this was his alone to witness.

My father would be 85 years old this August 22nd, were he still with us. Vladimir Popoff was a man of simple needs and tremendous intellect. He was also very funny, deeply loving, and totally honest. I am honored to carry his name and to have been his daughter.

I'm So Confused

What the heck? I don't know how it happened that I had one full, lovely picture of Walter Cronkite, then it disappeared, then I found another and now I have not one, but two, half pictures of the man. Sorry to you, the readers, for this. It is as weird as the Declaration of Independence link that you have to click on but I can see the full pic. I am just not that technologically advanced and will have to keep to my own photos. Please don't give up on me. hahahaha

Thanks Uncle Walter

There is no escaping the fact that I am a Baby Boomer. I have had the privilege of living through the entire age of rock 'n' roll because of my chronology. I have borne witness to so much crucial history and countless marvelous discoveries in my 55 years. Through so many of my formative and young adult years, the sonorous tones of Walter Cronkite informed me. Walter did not just deliver the news with integrity, clarity of thought and language, and confidence, he encouraged us to think.

In this time when so much of the media on both sides of the divide are based in shouting each other down with opinions, the role of the journalist is slipping into the void. We lose award-winning journalists from regional and local papers that are struggling. The major papers are folding. We are left with USA Today, "news" generated days in advance and delivered at hotel doors throughout America.

Chris Matthews screams his opinions and he feels it is his right to interrupt if he doesn't care for what the other person is saying. Rush Limbaugh is just a hateful man profiteering on the fears of those who somehow cannot do the work to think of any side other than their own limited knowledge and belief system.

Walter Cronkite was the person for whom "news anchor" was coined and it became a title, a role, a responsibility. He was articulate yet spoke in a plain language that instilled trust. He set a standard and he changed history in some ways. Do the research yourself if you don't remember. Thank goodness we still have Jim Lehrer, Barbara Walters, and some like them, those journalists who not only recorded, even made history, but those who exhibit temperance and a resolve for clarity and objectivity. But they are an aging, dying breed and the field of journalism is gasping for air.

I do remember Walter Cronkite as a daily element of the family life. I remember firsthand so many of the seminal clips they are broadcasting this weekend. I remember hearing Walter's voice comment from every home in the greater Westcott neighborhood of Syracuse, New York, as I walked with my boyfriend, my first love, through the thick evening air of July 20, 1969. It was otherworldly and we knew our world would never be the same.

Blessed be, Mr. Cronkite, and thank you.

That's the way it is, July 19, 2009.

p.s. Thanks to whomever took this photo. I use it with good intention, although I do not know your name to give credit. I found it on Wikipedia. I appreciate that it was there and I respectfully include it here.

The Lost Art of Penmanship - More Thoughts Regarding the Obvious

It is something to consider: how so many people struggle to handle a pen or pencil. Also, how atrocious so many people's handwriting is. Lastly, think about how many people really dislike writing.

I have found in my 10 years of working with all ages of writers and students that some of the frustration is that the mind works so much more quickly than the hand. The translation of thought to written word on the page is arduous for many. Slowing down the creative process to accommodate the mechanics of pen to paper is counterproductive. Add to that the basic sense of inadequacy so many people feel as writers and they are discouraged.

One way I have discovered to maintain engagement and cooperation in school settings is to get students to computers rather early in the writing process. There are many reasons for this:

1) students love computers and are used to them (at least if they are under 45);

2) they need the computer skills to survive in the 21st century and some students have limited access so school is the place where they can hone their abilities;

3) often those with attention issues will stay focused more readily; and/or

4) it is a change from the standard day, a treat of sorts, which also buys me a certain level of appreciation (a plus factor from my perspective).

This has been evidenced time and time again. I sometimes run up against the problem of not enough computers to accommodate the number of students or too many other classes reserving the computer lab so we have to plan accordingly but I want to get students to keyboards quickly. When I do, we see more productivity and creativity, as well as more willingness to complete the assignment.

I also see that I do not have to watch awkward hands hold pens and pencils in challenging positions or listen to whining. That is certainly worth it!