One Barack Obama

From the Christian Science Monitor today--
"When a speaker speaks at a podium at the Democratic convention, and there are no cameras around to capture him, has he made any sound?"

(referring to both the networks' non-coverage on Tuesday night, and aired-over pundit commentary during speeches, more specifically, the speech of one Barack Obama.)

Okay my people, I'm going to stump. Not for the Dems or for Kerry, or even for a particular candidate to win. I'm stumping to let something move us, and for that to be the kingdom and the power and the glory come through us in our daily lives.

I crave good oratory like a baby craves milk. I need someone to name it for me. It's not "tak[ing] the same sentiments [in traditional political speeches], and . . . mak[ing] it new . . . [so that] you feel like you're hearing it and watching it for the first time, " as Jeremy Dauber reports in The Monitor. Good oratory does not make it new; it makes it true.

Last night I watched Barack Obama address the Democratic National Convention. My dearie, Katie, had told me to look out for him and said that he was really good. Other than that, though, I had no familiarity with the man. Turns out he's a state senator in Illinois right now, a law professor at The University of Chicago, and a former editor of the Harvard Law Review. He is a young man, 42, is married, has two daughters, and is of mixed ethnicity (Kenyan-born pop and whitebread American mom). Oh ya, he was raised in Hawaii. So that's a little about the man.

As I listened to his speech, something was happening to me. I was moved to hold the positive perceptions of the flaws in our country, the flaws that have touched my life, like my Harlem kids struggling to get some learning. I am aware of the growing gulf in their chances. I am aware of this very real problem. I feel despair because the problem is so mulit-faceted with layers of sources. And here Obama says to me in one swift line: "Go into any inner city neighborhood, and folks will tell you that government alone can't teach kids to learn. They know that parents have to parent, that children can't achieve unless we raise their expectations and turn off the television sets and eradicate the slander that says a black youth with a book is acting white." He speaks with force. He is empassioned with a sense of reckoning, reckoning without anger and filled with hope--pouring over with hope.

People are referring to his address as the "One America" speech. He spoke to me about what I knew. But he also told me some things I did not know. He spoke about the forces embedded in our daily lives (he called them the pundits, others call it the media) "who slice and dice our country into Red States and Blue States; Red States for Republicans, Blue States for Democrats." He drew enough comparisons to prove to us that we are all the same in our basic concerns.

You know, I quite enjoy defining myself. Tells me more about who I am. But I think Obama even surpassed my cognizance in some particular areas of who I may be as a citizen. I'm not usually big on patriot-speak, as most of us liberals are not. But I think part of the reason I'm a teacher is because I hold dear what it is to be a citizen. I like what Obama told me about the slicing and dicing I do. I draw lines. We all do. To defend. To define. Perhaps to reckon. But some more "E pluribus unum--out of many, one" can do us all some good, at heart, in mind.

Dauber finished his article with this--

There were some good speeches tonight. But only his transcended 'good' to 'great.' Only one that broke out of both the silence created by the absence of television coverage and the bonds of the stories created by television pundits.

Barack Obama, I think, may not just be the latest example of "A Star is Born", the next Evan Bayh or Jennifer Granholm or Chris Heinz or whoever the parties are going to anoint as fresh faces and new stars. Barack Obama isn't anything but Barack Obama, sui generis, and that is far, far more than enough.

The broadcast networks chose to take tonight off. Which is too bad. They missed the national debut of what could be one of the most exciting and important voices in American politics in the next half century.

--and that I agree with.

Six years as a northerner makes me ready to see new things (And I'll tell you that I may be just as happy in Birmingham, Alabama or Merridian, Mississippi right now because it is The South I crave.)

I don't believe The South is about progress. I believe it is about keeping things whole.

Warm air makes you want to take your clothes off. Palm trees make you want to kick up your feet. And apartment complexes, some of them, especially the ones designed in courtyard fashion, make people want to congregate in the middle of it all. The other evening I had the good fortune of being led down a path, past a couple of iron gates, to the back building of "The BV."

We dropped our Lone Star longnecks in the fridge (Lone Star is big here. They have pretty, new, red, white & blue labels just the way Texans like it), and walked over to the two-story deck in the middle of the courtyard. We were elevated, sitting in wood-slatted beach chairs, being cooled by breeze and a spinning fan at the top of a high blue canvass cover.

The green of trees should be taken in at eye-level. It's as if someone has brought them to you. You sit amongst them, like Jane or Tarzan. Even though Houston's topography is flat and a little swampy, they are proud of their trees. My complex is plump with them. Magnolias, people, tall, graceful, with leaves so stately that they've been carved.

But there's something about a palm tree. I can't believe my luck everytime I'm able to lounge with one in sight. It's not the same with the ones towed in and planted for atmosphere. Those look like landscaping in Las Vegas. But living in a city where they actually belong because the balmy, sweaty sea air tells you so, you can't help but feel a little like you're on vacation in the evenings that belong to your regular work week.

One glorious glimpse so far. I could have kissed the tree trunk. I could have kissed the wooden beach chair. But instead, I just laid my head as far back as it could go, looked up into the blue, and appreciated that little moment in time.

Kate & Dave

It's the last week in NYC for me. I'm feeling extra good this morning. I've slumber partied it over at Kate&Dave's Inhood apartment because we've been doused by the moisture Gods. Humidity and upper-80-degree weather for days now, the taxing nature of which was best exemplified I think by the little girl I passed on the way home from school yesterday. Her big brother was threatening her with fists to get her to take steps forward toward home. All her 1st-grade mental capabilities could do to process the burden of the heat was to face the fence and cry. I stopped to help (offering pink heart and rainbow stickers, which did bring a smile), but it was her brother's decision to pick her up and carry her that made the most sense in the end.

Cool breezes from the fan, mixed in with slight air conditioning and a cup of coconut coffee have made waking up this morning most welcoming. It's one week before school ends. The anticipation of summer break is also one of the most welcoming feelings you can have. For me, it usually goes hand-in-hand with leaving town. Last year we left the day after for trips to Texas; the Midwest by way of St. Louis, the Arch, and the Museum of the West; and then me going further to Chicago, South Dakota, Wyoming, and Montana. Two months of continuous travel is freedom from the everyday burdens that make you want to face the fence and cry.

Time to pack up. But before I do I'm going to hang out with my friends. Nothing fancy. We'll just sit around and talk, mess with the computer, take a walk, or go to the store--completely relaxing times, the kind you can't recapture through distance.

Hay Mamita! Scores are in for the school children of the U.S.A. Do any of you recall the results for my sixth graders last year? After teacher year one, half of my children scored level 1 on both the reading and math tests. (Not like, "We're #1!") The rest scored 2's (about a quarter . . . right? hee).

This year, after teacher year two, not one single child of mine scored 1's on both the reading and math (that's 0%). Hot damn! As a team of fourth grade teachers, only one of our kids will not be promoted--in the entire fourth grade!! At "the worst" school in the city of New York, mind you.

Yee haw, teaching rocks! (not really) But it sure feels good when all your efforts help the little ones out. They did it; we did it. Now we can all go off with heads held high. Next adventure, please. Keep 'em coming.

sistra teach

I have sat down at the desk. It's filled with files, folders, file pockets, and these little spiral notebooks with pockets in them I like to keep. I've decided to throw away the used spirals. But before I do, I read them to see what it is I'm throwing away.

Here is something I found:

I suppose my mind goes to moments and to people, former students, discussions about MLK's "Letter from a Birmingham Jail" or John Cheever's "The Swimmer." Students curious or baffled, but more times than not, excited. Learning is beautiful to me. We stretch ourselves. It is hope. It is understanding. And it always involves exchange. It can't be done alone. There is goodwill inherent in that.

These are notes I made while an applicant for the NYC Fellows Program. I knew the job would lead me someplace different. How far away from this place it's taken me. I don't love learning anymore. I remember feeling that way. I remember how clear I was as a teacher and a student back then. These two years have convoluted my thinking, my writing, my teaching, and my purpose. My zest is warn down as well. Reading what I used to write scares me a little. I'm sloppy now. I lack control. It's like seeing your handwriting deteriorate.

But I also know I'm not that far away. I can get it back.

Teaching these children has taken the student out of me, but it's given me other things of equal value. I do not write these things to bash my experiences. I'm noticing the differences and the trade-offs.

(at this rate the packing will take all month)

I've been opting out of the blog lately myself (opting out--one of the things I hate). But it's transition time, and life is in upheaval. The changes have already begun. I'll be teaching two writing courses in about a month, one that surveys a range of writing styles, and one that is predominantly a response to literature class. I've never taught any lit before, so the fun is just beginning.

But for now, I'm sitting in limbo. My job awaits me, an apartment, G-30, is there for me, and a new friend I will be meeting for the first time the week I arrive will be a new part of my life. It's a vista over yonder that I'm viewing from here, a half-empty apartment beginning to fill up with boxes.

My left eye finally stopped twitching after returning from Houston this past weekend. I'm not sure why because the challenges of the move weren't exactly quelled based upon knowledge gained there. I suppose gaining more knowledge, whether good or bad, helps one to know better how they are standing.

The idea of Houston at this moment is of bayous coiling through city streets, abundant green shading glass and steal, and pockets of neighborhoods--their discovery as exciting as the culture within. I'm perfectly happy with inhabiting this new city, which shouldn't be such a shock to those who know me well. Give me something unfamiliar to come to know, and you got yourself a happy girl. But, it's Houston afterall. It's mainstream. It's sorority girls grown up to be decorator moms. It's malls, malls, malls, and subdivisions busting out the seams like a row of pristine soldiers all shined up, mimicking one another down the line.

A few years ago there isn't any way that I would be able to appreciate anything about Houston. I would have noticed only its trappings. I would have complained about the lack of. I wouldn't have found my place. It's all based in that idea of being ready for something. We all know when our time comes, when our needs change. Mine usually take a year or two to move from inspiration to fruition. But for some, an instant can take them past a hundred byways. I'll let you know how it turns out on the other side. I wonder if I'll still be orange.

Time to write again. But if I do I'll likely be up all night. I haven't been sleeping lately, not soundly. My mother is wondering why I have anxiety about the move. Told the brother about the sleep troubles, and he perks up, asking, "Changed your mind?" I miss my children when I say goodmorning, or, "quiet on the line," when I pat their backs. I've taken to the hard pat lately, the one my mommy always gave me. I just pat them hard to press it in. (Of course you can also find me screaming,"What's going on here!" or "Close your mouths!"--my favorite. It throws them off.)

I'm leaving the children part, and the adventure part of my little life, with all of these people here, for the digging in, as Lulu wrote not long ago. I want to dig with my hands. I miss you already. All of you. All of it.

Loved reading Bekkah's "Cinco de why-o" history link today. Check-ih, check-it out.

Ashlee's Poems

Escape

I wish I could escape
my bad feelings. I wish I could
escape myself when feeling mad,
sad, and lonely. I wish I could
escape problems and make solutions.
I wish I could escape being
scared, uncomfortable, and
small. I wish I could escape
falling without my wings

can I escape?
E-echo
S-scared
C-curious
A-appreciate
P-personal
E-especially

signed anonymous


One Thought

I wish one thought could
change how people think
I wish one thought could
change how people feel
I wish one thought could
change how people process.


Flowers

Roses, daisies, tulips. Flowers
everywhere so lovely I cannot
despair you smell so good so sweet
flowers everywhere.


The earth

The birds are chirping
The sun is shining
The sky is blue
The grass is green
The flowers are blooming
It's spring!!


Hot

It's hot hot hot very very
hot so hot I'm sweating
it's hot hot hot, I wish I
could go ice skating it's so
frustrating it's very very
hot!!!


The Way

The way the animals roam
The way the plants grow to trees
The way the flowers bloom
The way the grass grows
The way the sun shines
The way the birds fly
The way the fish swim
The way.


We Move With the Earth

We move with the earth
We go wherever it goes
We roam where it roams
We soar where it soars
We all move with the earth


Misery

The misery of sweat running from my
face. The misery of the sun being
in place. The misery of the heavy clothes
in this case. Misery Misery Misery.


Stars

Stars every where
How they glow
How they shine
How they shout out in the galaxy
Start stars stars


The Plant

Little flower plants falling
from the trees so windy I
can feel the breeze so
pretty but strange


Monday Morning

As the sun rises and
the day has begun
you're waking up getting
ready you go so slow
and steady. You're so stiff
like tin and that is how Monday Morning
begins


Cloud

As soft as a pillow
As fluffy as fur
As fragile as glass
As gentle and tender as a
mother
Clouds clouds

My fourth graders have been writing poetry. You will like it.

Snow

I
like snow
a lot. It is
really cold. It is frozen
water, but when
you put it in
your
mouth it
melts. You can
make a lot of things with
the snow like
angels, snowmen
and a lot more.

Ice Cream

Ice cream
is cold and
good. There are
different kinds
of ice cream.

(by Luz)


My Poem

I love my friend
She went away from me
My poem ends soft as it began
I love my friend.

My Poem

Snow made whiteness where
it falls. The bushes look like
popcorn-balls. The place
where I always play looks like
somewhere else today.

(by Katherine)


Me

I am a little kid. My name is
Louis. I like to play games. I am
like my big brother who loves to play
ball. We act like we are basketball players
and I play best. I don't act like a basketball
player. Sometimes I act like a regular kid. I don't like football like
my brother's friend Shakim.

Part 1 For Ms. Gordon

Violets are pink, Violets are red, Ms.
Gordon looks so beautiful today
and everyday too.

Part 2 For Ms. Haley

Violets are red, Violets are
pink. Ms. Haley your eyes
are so beautiful.

(by Louis)


Butterfly

Butterflies are nice and so fast
as the night so bright
as the light made as the sky
and high to fly.

NBA

N--No
B--Babies
A--Aloud

(no title)

I saw a little boy sitting
in a tree. He was eating a nut
and was looking at me.

(by Richard aka Baby Thug)


(no title)

When I am writing it feels like I can
Do anything, like I can
play like Jordan in the NBA, or
I can fly like a bird, or race like a
Nascar Racer.

Home

Home is a place where you feel good,
Happy not sad maybe sometimes sad.
Home is a place where you have good and old memories
Home is a place where you have family to
support you. Family tells you what
is good and what is bad. Family
supports you wherever you go. That is
what Home and family means.

(by Jonathan)


What I Hear When I Wake Up

This day I woke up feeling fine
in my mind, hearing the bird twe, twak
and listening to my mother's shoe click clak. I
went to the bathroom, did what I had
to do. My little sister woke up and said Winnie the Poo
I had wondered what that means. Was it her shoe
or her toe?

Love

Love can be so sweet
just like some meats I love
my mother and love my grandmother
and all the time I hug her
Love is in the air and it
smells like my mother's hair
Love
Love
Rob
the
Star

(by Robert)


Ice Cream

Ice cream is so good.
Ice cream is also very cold
Ice cream is very good.

H.
C.

My Shepard

My Mother is my Shepard,
My owner, my Guardian,
She feeds me, takes care
of me, I love her and she
loves me. She buys me
toys, she does everything
she can do for me.
She is my shepard.
My shepard.

Today

Today the sky is blue and white,
the grass is green,
The sun is shining yellow
like a diamond.
The wind breezes through
my face.
I see kids playing. I sit down
and relax.

Trees

Trees are my friends. I love the
fruits that come from
sweet trees.
Trees help me
live, Trees give
me food, Trees
are my friends.

Outside

Outside I play, Outside my
friends are outside. Kids are
yelling, playing, running. The sun shines
outside.

Nature is Mine

The sun is bright.
The light touches the
earth. The birds are
chirping, the squirrels
are working. Everything is fine.
The nature is mine.

The Forest

The forest is a living place.
The trees are a living place.

The Moon

The moon is bright
You can see the
best of the moon
at night, the moon
is bright.

The Peanut

The peanut is big
The peanut is long,
The peanut is lumpy,
The peanut is very good
once I eat you.

(by H.C.)

(Miss Ashlee's will be posted Monday, her Writer's Notebook she keeps so safely by her side. The poems delight, and I will share; do not despair, says Ashlee.)

Trucker Dreams

When you drive the freeways that border
Houston at odd hours of the night,
the dark tucks you in,
except for the wind beside your window.

Long stretches
connect places like Pearland
and Humble.

The in between blotted out
by dark green bushels of trees.

In the daytime, haze
leads your eye out to the refineries,
skinny little pipes
emitting white air.

The land is flat and soggy,
the coastal plain leaving rain little room to seep.

What does a little New York Thorn Bush/Texas Flower do on her first day home after driving cross country? Gaze; sip coffee; read Texas Highways; soak up all the Indian Paintbrushes, Buttercups, Bluebonnets, rolling plains, cow congregations, and everything green; and sit down to record it--my version of a thick lead pencil scratching a spiral notepad.

For those of you who have never visited, my mother's house is on a lot in what's referred to as "The Greenbelt." These greenbelts are scattered around the Austin landscape. They are belts of green--a dozen variety of oak, ever-present cedar, sumac, yucca, and agarita--elongating through limestone canyons, dotted with steep drop-offs and gentle slopes. Mom planned this house to sit like a treehouse, overlooking the canyon from six floor-length windows, side-by-side along the northwestern side. This is the livingroom, the treehouse, and then it connects to a covered outdoor deck in the rear so that it easily becomes indoor/outdoor.

From the couch this morning, the sunrise was at eye-level, a muted white hazy sunglow through the scattered boughs. Stepping outside, the rain has left everything showery clean, alert. In the air there is a mixture of sweet honey, bitter greens, and robust grounds. The sun is coming up. Yummy, I'm home.

Long time no blog. Sorry to several of you who hate my comment box. It takes your thoughts to never-never land before any of us can read them. Therefore, we all hate my comment box--boo.

I don't know if there's a solution in sight. Maybe we can post about it.

They keep posting this SXSW, Club Deville thing on the login page. It's trickery, fuzzy visions in sight through the NYC haze . . .

More things I hate: sweet 10-year olds who scream you effing b with two middle fingers up, chicken skin, spilling coffee down my middle while missing my mouth, mail, energy-sucking stress, one-man shows, having nothing much to be jazzed about, bad coffee, jiggle in my wiggle, extreme makeovers, people who opt out, base on your face.

Some things I love: easy passes in my windshield, the open road, country music (I don't care if it's crap), turning arguments inside out, driving, checking off lists, "Hands on a Hard Body," singing anywhere anytime, grocery shopping, sago palms, The Pacific Northwest, Napa Valley, Mexico, lime in your drink, being under water, shockingly hot showers, fresh flowers, hills, The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, German Expressionist paintings, essays, kisses, forgiveness, being your best.

Music is coming out of my purse. It's loud for purse music. The treble is high--pure and piercing like your chest voice on the high notes. I've been thinking about church. Jeff and I were born to parents with differing views on the Lord. It occurred to me while watching "Rock Star Daughters," a new VH1 docu-wonder (I didn't really watch it; background only, assuredly), that my dad is a rock star dad. He totally is. It all makes sense to me--what I've been trying to make sense of. He's rock-n-roll like the Stones, graying with a cigarette slanting down from his mouth as often as he can manage it.

So my dad grew up rigid Presbyterian, and my mom grew up higher-order Methodist, the sophisticated Christians who deemed themselves thinkers, progressive for their tolerance on biblical and moral matters, and ever the appreciaters of classical music, traditional hymns accompanied by Bach organ, of course, but often by a striking mezzo soprano or a string quartet. I don't know much about the way my dad grew up in the church except for his defiance of it. I've heard some story about him forbidding my mother to baptize us, to raise us like he'd been raised. Dad's a contrary to polite society, to the norms of society. So, indeed, he did not scurry us off to Sunday school. I'm not sure what my mom's story was in those days. I know we went to a Presbyterian church in Denton when we were toddlers, not for very long though. We always skipped stones, from church to church, through the growing up years. After Denton it was onto University United Methodist on the University of Texas campus. That's where the beautiful mezzo soprano came into our lives. She had thick chocolate hair full of texture like her voice. It fell back away from her forehead, highlighting her burgundy lips and sculpted cheek bones. The mezzo soprano held herself in the most serene way, allowing the tones to come from her center.

We stayed at that church for a few years, mostly because of her. I sang in the youth choir and looked forward to the juice and cookies in the courtyard after the service each Sunday. Jeff, well, he looked forward to music coming out of his earphones while sitting in the balcony by himself. Defiant.

Mom grew tired of fighting her children. Whines and even stronger protests coming from her adolescent son, we never went as a family again. I think it was my sophomore year in high school when I knew something was missing for me. I didn't fit in. I didn't know myself, but knew that I could, if only I were exposed to the right elements, friends maybe. Maybe it was in music or places, food, texts, circles of discussion. It was there, but I was far away from it. I didn't know myself like I wanted to. I wasn't satisfied. I wanted to go to church again. Just me and mom. We tried out five or six, an Episcopal that my mother was high on. The sanctuary was nice, the exterior architecture too. I wanted a pretty place, aesthetic beauty to cradle me. I could easily dismiss an option before ever reading a program or hearing a sermon just by doing a drive-by. Mom and I agreed. We both wanted what was familiar, and we wanted a preacher man or woman who would make us consider life, the world around us, and the people we encounter. I was looking for ritual to keep me whole. What we inherit feeds that element within ourselves, whether it's defiance or music, or sophistication, or simple tradition.

My grandparents were members of the First United Methodist Church of Richardson, Texas for years. I remember the little offering envelopes that hung before you as you sat in the pews, and the round sanctuary, like a hexagon. My grandmother was an alto with a large vibrato who sang out in church. She liked to hum the hymns at home or in the car. I love my church inheritance more than my defiant inheritance, but I take both, sometimes with a bitter pill when the defiance alienates us from one another.

By the way . . . in those years, my mom very much resembled the mezzo soprano.

I am not a follower of the Martha Stewart case. Upon learning that she was being prosecuted, I'm sure I thought something or other about it being an easily dismissible, forgivable offense. Her guilt or innocence wasn't a question. But as word of the trial began coming in the sound bites more often, I began probing a few minds here and there to help me piece together what I think. And what I've gotten are two ends of the spectrum--vehement argument for severe punishment with assured guilt before a verdict came through; and then vehement disdain for our American culture who chooses to hold up Kobe Bryant and Martha Stewart as its worst sinners.

The verdict came to me on my lap as I lay on the blue cushions that pillow me after school each day. Searching for either a cooking show of interest or maybe Ellen, I was interrupted by reports of Martha's guilt on all counts. Since then I've bought the paper each day, reading the stories, looking at the photographs of her almost always brushing a manicured clump of golden-gray hair behind her ear.

I am an admirer of Martha's ability first. Anyone who is a doer is a good thing in my book. She's like my grandmother or Eleanor Roosevelt, like all the ladies who are determined at their core and composed in their air. They rise above the times and go on with their business, full with purpose. But beyond what she does and what she's created, Martha has positively contributed to the culture, taking things back home, to the ways of our grandparents who took pride in the mundane tasks of sewing a straight hem or weed-eating and then bagging the mowed grass on a hot July day. If you don't do it with your own hands you lose the gratification from the effort--pride in yourself and what you are able to create and keep. Several generations now have been without. It's a Fast Food Nation, yes?

Martha is a foremother of American culture; and yet, she is in her guilt of corruption for monetary gain, again, a foremother of American culture.

Some anonymous person has been itching for it, so here it is--another list, a particular kind of list, not about what's top-notch in a certain genre, say, life or in the music television world. No, just the opposite.

"Things I Hate"

--mouseys named Fredrick who twitch as they die upon your bathroom threshhold
--three-hour movies about the murder of christ
--jello
--viewing your own bitten-down fingernails in shame
--clam juice
--pressure
--hesitation
--people called "Uncle Cracker"
--crackers--all kinds
--the whole metal teeth fad (reminds me of Jaws in that James Bond movie)
--SNL skits
--Dick Gephardt
--innards, like barbacoa y lengua
--particle board, faux finishes, wallpaper borders
--sometimes Oprah
--prison
--crying on birthdays, which I used to do
--false pretenses
--techno music
--The Real World
--Sex and the City (I waffle on this one)
--musicals. I said it, okay.
--the phone ringing
--displeasing loved ones, falling short you could say.

Once you start, it's hard to stop. Post away all you haters out there.

52 Degrees and Rising

In four months almost to the day I will be driving yet another Ryder truck packed full with my belongings. This one I've been preparing for for about two years. It's the big one, the return home.

Perceptions of home retain their quality of the things you left for, what it couldn't give you, for no finite period of time. It lingers, in the front of your mind, on the tips of words you are surprised to find spilling out of your mouth to strangers when they ask polite questions about your place of birth. But all the while home remains your identity. I met James last night in the City. He checked my driver's license and asked what part of Texas I grew up in. "Austin" (me). "Born and raised" (him). And do you know what I did? I put my backpack down and gave him a hug. "I can tell you're from Texas" (him). James told me his whole building is full of people from the Lone Star State. I nodded because I understood. We leave, but we find each other out there.

I wasn't able to let go of those lingering perceptions of the things I left for until recently. When people move, there seems to be this great debate about whether one is running from something, or forever searching for something within a locale rather than within oneself. Moving from state to state doesn't seem to be an epidemic, so I wonder why people fear this as a harm to which their loved ones are susceptible. There is purpose in it--moving. Forward motion to give a dream a chance, to go to school, to see how a different environment suits your temperament, or sometimes to leave something behind that needs leaving.

When I left the Promised Land, it wasn't feeding me. I needed pushes in all sorts of ways, the sorts of ways an unfamiliar place can give you. I needed to stand alone, away from my identity for awhile, so as not to rely upon it. I needed to find out what did feed me, because I was good at things, I had friends and family near, but what mattered? I am someone who needs to know what matters, to get clear on that, as a foundation. Some people's foundations are built up nice and sturdy by their families, or maybe they're born with it, an innate sense of direction and self-knowledge. I've been building mine through the experience of the unknown.

The drive to test life isn't at the front of my mind anymore. It faded away, little by little, while other aspects made themselves known, like being close to loved ones. I ventured at first with the intention of relying upon myself. Then, I ventured to find folks I could rely upon. Stage 3: I'm not so much fighting anymore. I've got a lot of inner fight, a quality that serves to help things sit right within. It's like jostling all the flakes in a snow globe and following them as they gently lay down. The forward motion of moving has helped things settle inside; it's helped me be able to acknowledge the irreplaceable spaces where family, friends, and love hold me together. These revelations are with me to take wherever I go.

I'm going home because it's where I come from. The scenes outside the car window, I want to see again.

Last night an old friend of my brother's played guitar and sang at a venue on the Lower East Side. The performance was low-key, sometimes just Amy (the singer) on stage, at other times my sister-in-law joining her on back-up vocals, her husband blending in on piano, and my brother adding in rhythm on bass. Pieces of home. Where you come from. Your history and memory and makeup. Walking through Central Park yesterday winter was breaking into spring, fifty-two degrees outside.

The first time I heard about Dean was after an appearance he'd made on Meet the Press in the beginning of 2003. My brother, ever keeping the pulse of the American political system and its inhabitants, had begun to hear his name, had read some articles from pundits who'd been looking through their binoculars and spotted the little guy on top of the Green Mountains, rolling up his sleeves to show Popeye-like forearm muscles. Jeff told me Dean was good, just a few simple words and a knowing, affirmative head-shake. He smiled when he told me. All I had to do was listen to him speak and I would understand. Jeff was thrilled.

How many of us feel thrill when we see a political candidate, quick, like a surge on a heart monitor, but not fleeting--a sense that burrows itself within your ideology? Jeff and I are die-hard Democrats (him more than me, granted), like most of our friends and family. We grew up that way. We latch on and champion each candidate for the different aspects of their makeup, Clinton's rock-star brilliance, Gore's family tree of steadfastness in the principles of what is good for the society. And we allow for the flaws, acknowledging them, but cheering for the better sides to come forth, to resonate and take hold so that we will be doing our best each day without injustice. Now I'm speaking more for myself. What is politics for anyway? So many choose not to listen because of the dissonance.

Chris Matthews calls Dean a maverick, one who resists adherence to a group. Perfect. From Jefe to Sistra, to our friends, to six degrees of separation branching out across the Internet, to Meet-ups, to caravans from Austin to Iowa, campfire chats where Janeane Garofalo and Joan Jett drop by . . . to Caucus Day. Many of us recognized that thrill given off by Dean. The way people talk, not what they say, is more telling.

When you belong to a group for a long time, like your company for instance, your school where you teach, your acupuncture lounge, your theatre troupe, you learn how to communicate in that arena to become a better communicator--to know your audience. Politicians do the same to convey that they are not out of touch with the American people (a touchstone of the pundits). If you choose this road in politics, connecting-with-the-people speak, you end up coasting on the crest of good message delivery and talking without saying anything. To us folks out there, oh, I don't know who we are, folks like me, this is all so flat. The campaign season is rote. I only ever look forward to the debates because inherent within them is having to think on your feet. There's no way around it. (That's why I was so dumbfounded last time around when Bush actually did well.)

It is interesting when a person stands before you and can respond in time. What comes forth may not be tempered. It may just end up being a "Neeeyah" yip. But those yips tell you that who is before you is not someone hidden under layers of spinning webs or smooth frosting. That person is honest with himself or herself, and therefore conveys to us that he or she is honest with us. Not only this, but to respond in time means that you have to examine, think, and consider, fantastic qualities in a leader.

What does happen behind closed doors? It really isn't our right to know about foreign policy roundtables with Condi Rice et al. All debates and decision-making should not be open for public scrutiny every step of the way, especially when they are threatening to the public. In such cases, we examine, we elect, and we must trust that Mr. President is acting in good faith. I want to know that he is thinking and honestly looking at a situation from as many perspectives as he can before making decisions.

What Matthews looks for and admires is what he calls speaking out when everyone says you're wrong. He noted Teddy Roosevelt, Martin Luther King, Jr., Winston Churchill, John Brown, and finished with Howard Dean. For me you do not need opposition in order for it to come forth. It's in the way people speak. Are they talking on top of the subject, or are they speaking from within it?

Funny enough, this morning while studying Arnold Scwarzenegger during a 20-minute segment with Tim Russert, I felt a good vibe and couldn't understand why. Now I understand.

People, the enemy (one who will do harm) cannot simply be identified through one's political affiliation or even their opinions on the issues, such as opposing same-sex marriage.

I read a very good quote recently from William Falk, editor of The Week. He says:
Consistency is a highly overrated virtue. I'm not ashamed to admit that I no longer believe half of what I was sure of 10 years ago, or that I've come to see wisdom in hoary ideas my younger self would have dismissed. You make mistakes, you get new information, you change your mind along the way.

The enemy is much more likely to be found in an individual who does not examine, who is not willing to make mistakes, who is suspect of those inclinations within himself or herself and keeps them hidden.

the yard

It's time for some more beauty, isn't it?
(this is more for my non-urban-living friends . . . to partake.)

I live in a fifth floor apartment on a hundred and eighth street in Manhattan. The building is owned by a magnanimous slum lord (heard that word the other day--the m word--and found it funny). And we have just become acquainted with our new roomie, Fredrick, the little grey mouse. (So, where's the beauty, sistra?)

Okay, so I'm sitting here, quietly, after watching "The War" with Elijah Wood, Kevin Costner, Mare Winnigham, and the little boy from "Sling Blade" tonight on Channel 55, and I hear singing in the yard.

Our building is steps from a main avenue, so it is surrounded by neighboring buildings not only on either side, but also adjacent and of course those behind it on a hundred and ninth street. The space behind all of our buildings, where our windows and fire escapes are the view, is the yard. I mentioned the other day that I have no screens on my window. It's a long way down, folks. A glass votive holder slipped out for a peek and took a time to pop. (slum lord) There's a chain-link fence about 5 feet high adorned with razor wire that divides the space on the ground, and it's all concrete. Ugly. I got a close-up look one evening when I accompanied the cable guy out back as he re-juiced the box, but that's another story. It's very clearly a yard, yes?

The yard is always, always dead quiet. People in cities like to portion their space; suburban folks do too; we all do. But tonight a happy man with a clear tenor tone confidently sang out. He sang one song, and then stopped. A lady called out, "Please close your window," pleading loudly, not impolitely. It was quiet for a minute, and then the happy tenor sang again, with the same confidence and tone.

The yard is quiet again. It's time for bed. Goodnight.

Year 2, final semester, NYC Teaching Fellows

I don't identify myself as a Fellow any longer; there are few ties left, although I've taken to carrying the black cotton tote with the Fellows insignia branded on it lately. Who knows why, but I turn the insignia against my body. Maybe it's my way of physically rejecting the program a little each day.

I no longer attend education classes at the CUNY schools, but I suppose I've kept up with all other obligations (teaching kids). One real sadness for me this year has been the loss of my comrades, Katie and Salim, from last year. Both are no longer teaching. There are fellows from my cohort (they call it) there with me still, those with whom I was initiated, summer-schooled, trained, tested, who faced the gulf in humanity that was P.S. make believe # last year with me. These ladies still draw together at our faculty meetings. We greet and offer goodbyes mostly. But they continue to go off to their Fellows classes while I stay behind.

The school is quiet this year. The environment is a place to arrive at each day, approximately 10 minutes before time to collect the children from the auditorium, and to leave by 3:15, upon escorting them out. I plan my lessons throughout the day, during the prep period or at lunch. I leave it all there. I come home.

This experience has affected my insides like you wouldn't believe. It has affected who I am. I was crossing the street the other day and looked into the faces of the people standing there. I thought: there is goodness here.

It's still tough for me to reflect upon, to find the insight I'm looking for. I don't see my students' homes; I am their teacher. I greet them with a smile each day. Some of the parents come to school with their children each day. I am able to see into their homes then, and what I see is good, for the most part. Sometimes I see drug-addicted moms come along with grandmothers to the conferences. I see 99% single-parent or guardian homes. Children change living situations as part of everyday life in this neighborhood. We require updated contact information 4 to 5 times a year because phones are disconnected so frequently. And the nutrition of these children is frightening, save for the school breakfast and lunch. On a recent field trip probably 38 out of 40 children brought corner-deli-purchased lunches. About 5 had sandwiches, and the rest dined on chips, candy, and soda.

Things like this are what disturb me this year, inside, because I know it to be a sign of neglect. I've got a gaggle of bright-eyed babies, that's how I see them. They make me happy. They are young and sweet and full of everything you could imagine. But they don't get what the rest of us get. I compared notes briefly with my cousin, Jana, at Christmas. She teaches Kindergarten in Dallas at a suburban school. Our conversation brought to mind class parties I'd had as a kid--the parent involvement that was always a part of things.

I don't want to take away from the good parents I do have, but there is no parent involvement in my class.

Earl, one that I am close to this year, (who lives with Fran, his guardian) was telling me the most matter-of-fact tale at our class Christmas party, like kids do, you know. "Ms. Haley, I used to have a cat," the tale begins. "He died under the bed . . . And then I had another cat. He fell out the window." I asked: "How did he fall out of the window, Earl?" Earl replied: "My cousin doesn't like it when the cat scratches him and one day the cat got mad and my cousin swiped at him. The cat fell out the window." I asked another question: "Don't you have screens on your windows?" (I knew the answer to this because I don't even have screens on my windows.) Earl replied: "He fell on the fence. I could see his insides." "Okay, Earl. That's enough."

There's little remorse from dear Earl, little fear. He's as gay as ever. Part of this is due to being a little boy, but part of it must be due to becoming desensitized. I wonder what Earl has seen in his life, in his building, outside it, in the different buildings he has lived in. I wonder how Earl feels knowing that his father is alive but does not care for him.

I am becoming adamant about marriage and family. Some of it is just me, the traditional parts coming through, but a lot of it is stemming from my Harlem experience. I see life through children's eyes. They need stability, and continuity, and love, and adults who will help them learn how to read and write and do math. No joke. No joke.

There is about a 60% gap between the children's English and math abilities at my brother's school across the Triboro and mine. That's just one example. I could compare my kids to those at Jana's school, or my little godson, Jacob's, in Austin. The gap would be closer to 80% in those instances. Jacob has everything he needs for a good start, my favorite lady as a mom, a loving dad, grandparents, a room full of books, a computer, team sports, and plenty of people who love him and buy him architecture books or gardening sets if it's a new interest of his. Do you think Earl knows he's different than Jacob at age 9? Earl is happy. He's loving. But I think he knows.

I wouldn't want to grow up in Harlem. I suppose Plano wasn't the bomb in the early '90s either. You think you have a lot of power as an individual. You can close your classroom door and create a situation equal to that in my brother's school or Jacob's. But you can't. It doesn't happen. The way these kids live comes with them and affects their behavior, their anger, their motivation, their belief in relationships, in what the world is about, in what is worth trying for, in what is worth becoming.

I Like the Men Who Say Hi

The men who say hi pass on the street. This is where you will find them. Their language is portioned in phrases and greetings, tiny Tiffany blue boxes with bows floating out their throats like a garden bath that spurts rather than trickles. To open one you must catch the gentleman's eyes. The unwrapping comes in the the nod of acknowledgment, simple.

"Good morning pretty lady," "You are beautiful," Barry White's baritone wafting. Masters of appreciation, lovers, givers. I like the men who say hi.

(dedicated to that guy on CPW last night at about 6:30 and Edwin, custodian extraordinaire)

"Having a Baby Changes Everything."

Awww. What a sweet sentiment, Johnson & Johnson. You just gave me warm fuzzies, for real. For real y'all. The ad's freaking powerful. Rolly-polly arms splashing in the bath suds . . . accompanied by a background track not unlike George from "It's a Wonderful Life," a deep-toned paternal figure telling us a bedtime story: "Who'd have thought that short and bald was her type?"

In a different segment a pop with his two little ones is having "boys night in." The baby boy is mesmerized by a glossy frog. He touches it, pressing down with his index finger. The frog lets him. "A night with the boys" . . .

These ads shock me. They take me aback in a minute's swoop. So I say to my girlfriend/sister B, "Have you seen the Johnson & Johnson ads?" And we become caught up together, eyes lit, smiling.

In 1980 the Haley family was the first in our neighborhood, The Four Seasons, to get divorced. A few months later the Robbins joined us. I was eight years old, ripe for all the many influences that tell a girl what the world is all about. Somewhere within that decade Oprah rose up from local news to syndication. When I was a senior at Reagan High School I was thoroughly involved in a group called, PALS, kids who befriended elementary and junior high kids for the fun of it (to be role models and tutors). I remember a short-term gig in those days at one of those high schools where they send teenage mothers. We sat around in a cirlce utterly uncomfortable because we didn't know each other and we were supposed to talk--about babies? About chemistry? Friday nights?

From the time I was eight I have been immersed in a world that breeds the "I." What does it mean to be self actualized? Are you co-dependent? You can be anything you want to be. Try it, you might like it. Save it. Give it up.

"Promise me you won't get married until you're twenty-five," my mom said to me when dear Crysta was getting hitched. I was all giddy with the bridal tea, the dresses, the flowers, the romance. "Yes, yes. Of course, mother. Are you kidding. You know me."

There is something there. It is nascent and old as time. It has absolutely nothing to do with the Christian Coalition. It has nothing to do with drawing lines. I feel it in those ads! Jeez, and it's not my clock a-ticking. It's about what is lost when we indulge in the "I" as a way of life.

Oy-vey. Those women on 20/20 who feel misled because they've been on the career track for ten to fifteen years and nobody ever told them that their fertility factory couldn't produce as long as they needed it to by treadmilling a few extra minutes each week (and the Internet dating bonanza, I don't even want to go there). It's all connected, folks. Believe me.

So what do you think is missing? Johnson & Johnson thinks they know. Babies. "Having a baby changes everything." There's no disclaimer, no personal testimonies to bolster the claim. It's black & white, a close-up shot, one angle, one view, plain. For the first time in my life someone is telling me to have a baby. I am a thirty-one year old woman. I repeat: For the first time in my life someone is telling me to have a baby. If I were living in the 1880's, I wouldn't be spunky. I'd be 15 years past prime. But we're so much more clever than they were. We can do anything. My fertility factory will keep producing. If not, I can make something happen with a dish and some goo. It's perfectly okay to do whatever you want for as long as you want to do it.

So, I am such an interested participant in Generation X. We make it happen. No limits. I love us. And here we are in our thirties. Life is changing around us. Many of my friends have just found themselves past the action that one tends to get when in their twenties. Now the action is creeping. My friends are humbled, and I like them a little bit better because now they have one more angle of life that is teaching them about who they are. Most, well, all of them want one thing. A partner. But my Gen X peeps are so inculcated into the "I" generation, that they can't say it, "I want to get married." They can't say it.

We have been taught that in marriage you sacrifice your potential (professionally and personally). Marriage is a limitaion. We're the no-limit cadre. Singular. Strong. Aware. We have been stretching ourselves across hostels and institutions of higher education for years, exploring and indulging in life as a vocation.

Oh my God, please make it stop! Well, something finally is. And how do I know? Those ads.

Those ads are spectacular.

We have just crossed the threshhold of a new era. It's just the beginning. You may not notice it for awhile to come. It's an era of community, of back-to-the-basics, of home and family. It's been building for a time, this cooking frenzy is telling. People are thrilled by making something with their hands and tasting it. Is it an awakening? Well, we never really have one of those here in dear America. We just swing.

New York City Crime Like 1968

And here I thought Vermont was retro. But what are we going to do about the Sharpie Bandit Graffiti Artist? He's out there, willy nilly, first with the black chisel tip and then with the blue.

In the spirit of the season I was watching my good friend, Bobby Flay, the other morning make a brunch of Bloody Mary, coconut cake, and corn muffin grilled with a slather of fresh blueberry butter. He was talking to me as he went along and struck up a conversation about his three favorite things in life.

Ah yes, three favorite things, one honorable mention allowed. So Bobby loves cooking, eating, and dancing best, with a dash of drinking on top.

The following day I was walking with my new good friend, Erin, and we discussed. She popped her answers out, badgering me: "C'mon, c'mon. Just say whatever comes to mind!" (so demanding, this new friend) I'm a contemplater.

Sistra's list:
uno--food and drink, but cooking, eating, and drinking with others, not just a potato sitting there staring at me from across the deli.
due--language, everything you could scoop up about it, hearing it, speaking it, writing it, reading it, thinking about it, and so on.
trois--lovely, unbeatable, mother nature. can't beat it with a stick.

honorable mention--musica, raised on it in so many ways, styx and kiss posters like papier-mache, spinning with mommy in the living room to the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack, sitting in front of my dad's stereo system, listening to Fleetwood Mac and The Rolling Stones, and my flava as a little girl--Barry Manilow.

Tell it people. Talk to me.

note from teacher: never say a phrase like, "it's easy street."

A game of pool is going on. The room is a dingy garage with plywood walls, a locals' bar. At the table, a tall gentleman joins our game. We introduce ourselves with a handshake and exchange of names. And then he and I go off to our respective gentlemen's and ladies' rooms. I hear dialogue when I close the door. It's just him. No one else there. He is singing at first. And then his tone changes. Gay in a homophobic world. He is angry.

I can't shake it today. It was like one of those funhouse rooms with the mirrored walls. There are all these slices of you, of the others, and you can't leave so easily. You have to stay there in the confusion for awhile. I was hearing these secrets, and so easily we came back out into the open, same as before.

It's not so good to hide things, I think. Maybe the slices of you grow more plenty when you do that. If that chap wanted to sit down with me and have a conversation about alienation and his feelings, I might do it. I can't say for sure, but you have to give people a chance to take the bad things away.

it's easy street

Two months in and the prediction is partially true: this school year is much better, but I was wrong about it being physically and emotionally draining. It's easy street.

Now what am I supposed to do with that? I spend as much time as I can noticing the child--catching fireflies on the carpet is one of my favorite glimpses, wiggling loose teeth and being so proud of the blood, not being able to possibly be the last one touched in a game of tag, all the tattling, being vulnerable to the hundreds of opportunities for praise and reprimand each day, tears, bright wide eyes, holding hands, kindness, tenderness, dear little people.

Within the first three weeks of school, Lacey pushed me to reach another child he wanted to fight. This was in front of the class, and purposely done to test the boundaries. This child tries to be away from the crowd, prides himself in not being duped by teachers' ways to motivate kids to do what they want--okay, bribery. He's preteen at ten, has older cousins. You know the type. But after several weeks, I now feel close to Lacey.

I've befriended him and made inroads through letting him know I'm checking up on him. He knows I care, I suppose, and has found a little more security from that. Progress like this so quickly amazes me. I was sure he couldn't care less. I was sure he knew, like I, that I'm a wimp of a teacher. But that's my internal speak, my doubt that the children really don't see, no matter how perceptive I believe them to be. This is part of the second-year teacher curve--what I'm supposed to be doing with what I've got.

I've said many times that I don't know how to teach children. I absolve myself when I use that statement, but also humble myself so that perhaps some learning will permeate my teacher persona. There's language to every professional culture. "Community building" was big when I was with the Lutherans. As long as you used the language to build messages and then delivered them, you were doing okay. With teaching there's the oral, the behavioral, and beyond that, showing all the aspects of your own humanity.

Lacey remains the most problematic student in 4-320. He continues to test me, and Ms. G too. He constantly needs to know that we can in fact make him abide. For people who have this need, the burden shifts to those around them. It's rooted in something I have not yet identified. But it has something to do with a security that is missing within. I like Lacey. I like them all. I really do.

The word from fourth grade . . .
Sistra Teach

Hola amigos. I'm on holiday in fair Towson, Maryland. Last night we journeyed toward the Chesapeake, had a look at it in the night sky while driving over the 4-mile stretch of the Bay Bridge. Me likes water, even when it's grey.

This time has been relaxed, up to eleven people in the house at one time, shuffling between 3 floors and an outside deck. It's these holiday moments that make me remember how much I love stuffing myself into a house full of friends.

After I turned about twelve or thirteen, my stepmom's parents left Kerrville and built themselves a house in the Piney Woods near Quitman, Texas. They had both grown up there, driving in old Ford pickups and learning about life from railroad tracks and picking rows of whatever crop was up each year. They are part of the old breed of Texas working-class Democrats. Grandparents as Democrats, yes, they do still exist. But they also use misnomers when referring to the Black and the Proud. So, these grandparents built themselves a home right next to an itty bitty lake, calm, murky teal water with perch and trout. Wild pigs have gained force on their land over the years. It can be downright dangerous to take a stroll these days, so they say. I've never seen any of these "pigs." But the grandparents, who have four girls, ten grandchildren, and two great-grand children didn't want any more stuffing of people in their new house. So, they built a bunkhouse out back. It's one room; well, it's a trailor with a bathroom. The room is probably 15 x 9, and it sleeps about 16. Perfect! Bunkbeds, a television, hot water, and a porch surrounded by fallen needles, still moist and fragrant.

Bunking in back woods or Towson, Maryland, either one will do this weekend.

Girl Kicks

Little girls like to giggle.
Chocalate milk bubbles,
holding hands,
catching fireflies on the carpet made out of white lint fuzz.

Big girls like little things.
Ping, a Corduroy panda
with beans in his bottom that squish.

Little girls like to mind.
Showing off little lady ways--
Stand tall.
Rules to follow.
A slight dip and turn of the hip.

Big girls like pretty things.
Dots on frocks,
paints on toes,
poems by cummings shared together on the train.

jeffrena

I had lunch with Jeffrena today. She is nine years old. Me gusta Jeffrena. She wears her hair high on her head in a little top-knot that looks like a poodle puff. Today she added a Chinese hair stick with several little blue tassels of beads draping off the top--tre chic.

As the class was lining up for lunch, Jeffrena refused to take her place. What I've taken to doing lately with these little moments of protest (or inability to control bodily outbursts like slapping ones neighbor) is telling the child to walk next to me at the end of the line. I take his or her hand, and we go along nicely together.

Somehow this and a brief conversation outside the lunchroom after the rest of the class had been settled wasn't enough to settle my little Jeffrena. So I took the opportunity to invite her to join me at the "Conference Table" in our room for lunch.

She told me all her troubles, how Lacey sneezed on her, twice, how Itima wants to beat her up, how Lorna doesn't want to be her friend anymore. Most of the trouble centers around the idea that no one wants to be her friend. Luz says she walks too slow on the line. So, I asked, "Did you try to walk a little faster? Maybe Luz doesn't want to get in trouble." This is when Jeffrena says that if she walks fast she might have an asthma attack--that it happened to her one time when she and her aunt were hurrying somewhere. Jeffrena is a slow walker, I've noticed this about her. She's cautious. So I talked to her for a long time about how scary it is to have asthma attacks. She told me that one time in class she felt one coming on and cried a little, but it didn't happen. She didn't tell anyone. I told her that that was brave. Then she told me that she tried to explain why she walks slow to some of the girls, but they didn't care.

The gist of the talk was for little Jeffrena to focus on the positive--those children who do want to be her friend, rather than those who cause her angst, and even if it is only one friend, that that is her blessing. She went on again about this child and that, but I quietly repeated my words and told her to think about them. After school she hugged me and said she was glad she had someone to talk to. I'm very glad I had someone to talk to too.

Ms. Haley

first day online in the new place . . .

It's been a long stretch of homelessness--depending on friends, or just simply traveling around for freedom. But now it's back to setting up house again. Thinking back, this is the seventh place I've had since graduating college. Seven homes in eight years, sounds like a lot, but three were squeezed into a period of 6 months. This new home comes with a new roommate and two family members down the street. It also comes with a lovely park, Central Park. It also comes with a pee-stained, graffitied elevator. Overall, the good outweighs the bad here. We're overstuffed with stuff. The Colonel (roommate's mom) did us right with window treatments, swags, pics in assorted arrangments, even a new threshhold for the kitchen entry where none had been put in. We, I, feel taken care of in this home, surrounded by stuff.

Do you hear them? School bells, friends. Year two, day 1, Monday, September 8, 2003. My post: fourth grade inclusion, which means the class will consist of half special education students (some who will have physical disabilities, such as cerebral palsy, others with emotional problems, others with learning disabilities), and general education students who have been identified to require more than the regular classroom environment provides. Two teachers work with these students at all times, one special education and one general education teacher. The class also has a general para-professional, and some individual students have their own para-professional assigned to accompany and assist them each day. (A para is like an assistant teacher.)

As Monday begins, my environment will be made up of 5 adults and 17 students, quite a change from one teacher to twenty-some-odd students, quite a relief for me.

I am one of the lucky ones at P.S. "She's Going Back to That School!" Ms. D, my principal, chose me to co-teach with Ms. G. Ms. G is a real teacher. Even in the midst of Mary J. Blige's kind of "drama," she maintains herself in her own foundation of what it is to educate children--a combination of the self-knowledge she has gained working as a teacher for 10 years, and the desire to understand curriculum and how students best learn it. Ms. D has come to think of Ms. G in the capacity of teacher trainer. She chose me to learn from her. It is a luxury, friends. Especially since I have never been trained, just plopped down into one of the thousands of schools across the country caught in a black hole of low performance, and doused in societal dysfunction, "where teachers can't teach and children can't learn." I heard that one at the Dean rally--some politician from Brooklyn going for the line. (Dean didn't speak in sound bites, though. He spoke in detail. He is thoughtful.)

Even with this spot, the year will not be easy. It will be hard. It will be physically and emotionally draining. But this year I hope the stretch derives in more instances from learning how to teach rather than how to keep the masses from busting out the doors. I love these children. That has carried me through and gives them some stability, but they need more. They need chances.

Pronto (soon), as my friend likes to say.
Sistra Teach

From Friday, July 18th through Friday, July 25th, I spent time driving out west with buddy Steve. Out west is a little vague, but that's the way I see it. Here are some memories from that time.


The Coyote and the Cloud Wall--

After leaving the Black Hills of far western South Dakota late Saturday afternoon, we headed toward Sheridan, Wyoming, targeting as far into Montana as we could get. The sun crept downward that evening, but the air cooled quickly--relief from the beating sun of The Badlands, experienced earlier that day. We drove with windows down and sun roof open, beginning a stretch of narrower, windier I-90. The cd player deserved a break, so we searched the stations and settled upon country. KYTI--the Coyote--played a mixture of today's and yesterday's hits. They weren't lying. Merle Haggard lulled me into western dreamland, singing "Big City". Just passed Sheridan, out the western window sat a cloud wall. The lights dim, the sky blushing pink and deep purple, almost black, an opaque wall of cloud touched the ground and spanned a width that looked about as big as a sheet draping down from some sleepy giant's quarters. In it were bursts of lightening--a self-contained orchestra, curtained, but so lively that its energy could not be contained.


The Stars at Night . . .

The first night that we camped I was excited to spend part of the evening viewing the stars. Late that night, after lanterns shut off and campers found their way inside their tents, Steve and I sunk down in our canvas chairs, rested our feet on the picnic table, and tilted back. After about 5 to 10 minutes our eyes dialated enough to unmask the cosmos zinging along. It was bright, vivid, active. There were thousands of stars. So much was moving up there. Of course we began counting the shooting stars. We got to about seven before the game wore off and the glow set in--the warmth of things far away, unknown, greater.


The Glacier and the Flat Head--

These are places, not things. A place is something that holds wisdom, available for us to take whenever and however we need. Glacier is a national park in northwestern Montana, and Flathead is a lake found down the road, south from there. But I came to know them in reverse order.

Water that takes on shades of blue that remind you of gemstones often keeps you looking at it for long periods of time. Flathead Lake is sapphire blue. Aged, deep, and miles long it seemed to tell me about continuity. Neighboring this place are mountains, shaped through the centuries by the freezing and thawing of ice on glaciers. The mountains are craggy, dark, and sometimes snow tipped--stark colors bordered by a sea of deep green pines. Movement and change abound in this place.

okay, since i can't get anyone else to enter the contest (you know who you are), it's time to announce the winner. fanfare.

1st prize goes to: Josua
(this would look good on a resume under "special skills.")

thanks to all entrants!

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quote of the day

excerpt from "The Cool Passion of Dr. Dean," Time, August 11, 2003.

Being a burnout got old after a year, and Dean decided his life could take one of three paths. He could teach, as he had done for three months at a junior high school in inner-city New Haven, Conn., near Yale. He could be a doctor. Or he could take 'the path of least resistance' and go to Wall Street. He quickly dismissed teaching as 'too hard . . . There were a lot of kids with enormous numbers of needs, and I couldn't meet them all.'

umm . . . preach it, Dr. Dean.

"What do Great Sports Triumphs Show us About Ourselves?" essays

by Josua (pronounced HO-swah)

Maybe not quite an essay, but at least a couple paragraphs...

The sports world is now usually seen with a dollar sign attached. It is about winning, but that winning is measured against the cost; “Of course the Yankees won, with their $160 million payroll.” “He’s the MVP of the league, but isn’t worth $25 million a year.” “I loved going to the game, but what about those $7 beers?” We have transformed our perception of the sports world to include the home run and the home wrecker, which are both judged against their per annum salary. But there also are times when a sports event or a sports figure transcends the associated monetary moniker. And this is when we see ourselves in sports. Whether performing or watching, our hearts race, our muscles flex, our minds sharpen, and our passion for the moment peaks. We extend, physically, mentally, and emotionally, and stretch our limits to feel new feelings and to inhale the excitement of the event.

What does a great sports triumph show us about ourselves? (Patronize me a little here, because I might sound like an NFL pre-game promo, but I’m still very serious.) That hope is not in vain. That commitment is rewarded. That each of us has the ability within us, somewhere, to achieve goals and reach places we have forgotten exist. We exalt and idolize sports triumphs because they epitomize what we strive or at least dream to be; the best…and not in comparison to others, but the “best we can be”. It is easy to mock what I am saying, because often sports are over-hyped and basically Hollywood recreations at their best/worst. And it is easy to cynically bash my enthusiasm for a sports event or lifestyle that some deem completely unnecessary or unfulfilling. But when I think about the essence of a victory after taking away the glitz and the glamour, it is one of the purest forms of achievement. Not just physical, not just mental, but absolutely emotional.

I could go on to other aspects of these lovely v-style essay questions right now, but I think I won’t. Maybe later. Hasta pronto.



by Sistra

What got me going on this little endeavor was indeed an article about Lance. I like to take a result or an emotion and work at understanding all its components. The force, one tangible being the newest Nike "Can't tell a joke . . ." commercial, generated by Lance's cycling has become something that we want to touch or wear like a banner. It has become something for which to stand behind. And I wonder how physical exertion in competition leads us to that end, as humans, because we all know this goes back to our dear friends and models, the Romans. But, as I think on it, the physical expenditure need not necessarily require competition to become something to exalt. Think of the climbers of Mount Everest. There is the part of us, driven to burn energy at ever-more-challenging levels. Okay, plenty of sedentary folks exist. I've even heard the virtures of a sedentary life be exalted as well. But even the sedentary may, often do, take pleasure in being the spectator of such wondrous human achievements as Mount Everest climbs and 5-time Tour de France championships.

The thing that I am most interested in is the question: how does the physical extend the mental. When I run, I need more air. If I stop, it will be easier to breathe. But I lose something. My legs are no longer pushing off the ground in strides. Perhaps that doesn't sound fun, but who of you as a kid didn't try to see if you could leap from stone to stone across a creekbed, or simply swing as high as the sky? Mentally we are problem solvers, survivors, and communicators. When I am running, I am repeating a motion over and over. The same muscles are responding. The response is gratifying; the exertion is gratifying. The stretch, stretching to connect with a ball flying through the air, or stretching to reach a blurry endpoint marked through sweaty eyes, or stretching to hold muscles in a planted position tied to the ground, is gratifying. The physical is forever distinct from the tangle in the mind. It is clear and pure and felt. It is singular and present tense. It is something we strive for mentally, but can never achieve because the mental is past, past-perfect, present-perfect, and future tense. It is neverending, even in sleep. Through the physical we push through our own thoughts to find a respite that teaches us about ourselves.

Indefatigable is such a cool word. Who's indefatigable? Lance Armstrong, according to the wires. He effing did it again, and I love him for it despite so-called linebreaking during an actor's strike. It's good to have principles whereby to define your life (jefe), but sistra also has her own little principles.

What do great sports triumphs show us about ourselves?

How does the physical extend the mental apsects of ourselves?

And, how does the spectator differ from the participant?

Enough thought-provoking questions for you? I fondly remember a little E S S A Y
C O N T E S T sponsored by the people at Punch it, Chewy last summer regarding "What Baseball Means to Me."

Any takers on a N E W E S S A Y C O N T E S T for this summer season? If so, please post. I'll be working on my own composition on the matter.

test scores

Dates seem to be one of the stand out features of the blog spot. June 3, 2003. And then January 11, just prior, skipping stones through life.

So, today the state told me which of my students may continue progressing through their lives and which may not. At this point I'm down to 17. Nine will go on. Eight will not. Of those eight, 3 are on grade level presently, meaning those who are not functioning within the system set up to educate them, well, they're still not functioning after the stellar year we've had in Class 603.

Teachers received their scores in a schoolwide meeting. I received mine in class after an incident. By now you know the definition of an incident. No need to describe. The lecture from the AP (this time Miss P--no more Mr. S) went a little something like this. "Some of you will go on. But there are those of you who will stay right here, choosing to throw away your education. You laugh now and you're having fun. But some day you're going to be 18, and people won't find you funny then. Then you will just be slow. You won't be going anywhere, and eventually you will become a burden to society. People will be forced to support you, and people don't like that very much."

By the end of Ms. P's very effective speech my frustration had welled up. I looked down at the paper and counted nine names. Half of the class. Half failed. All the hours, all the stupid charts I made. All those moments attempting to gain quiet so that we could just simply go through the directions, so that they could have a sliver of the concepts and make an attempt at learning them. September through June. So much of my energy to the cause of Izaiah, Jamaal, Rachel, LaShonda, Angie, Sade, Desmond, Khadim, Synard, Sheena, Destini, Shawn, Qiyana, Jonathan, Vernett, Bernard, Sayyed.

Tears started coming out. I thought of trying to stop them. But that seemed like effort that I didn't want to give. I wanted to give up. Then I just wanted to cry. So I did. I stopped and announced all the names of those who failed. My AP said I should do this publicly unless I objected. My compass was kiddywampus, so I just went ahead and read out the names.

My compass is back. I know that tomorrow is a new day and that we've got work to do, that it's fine to have an emotional let down to bad news, but that after you experience it, it's time to pick things up and get back to business. That's what I plan on telling my kids tomorrow. I plan on pairing them up -- a buddy for those who will need their portfolio work to pass them. Seems proactive and positive. But there's this other part of me that is churning because I'm angry at this whole experiment in public education for these particular children. Half pass. Half fail. It's just not okay with me. I'm seeing them slip as children. They have free will and they make their choices. But they are children with spirit and ability. They can accomplish something in the world, and they're slipping.

It's a new year! Always uplifting if only for a moment. I am rather uplifted of late. Things began to shift about a week ago. I watched The Lord of the Rings and got swept up in the melodrama of Froto's perseverance. Yes, Froto, yes! I wish I'd never found the ring either!! I wish I'd never found Sayyed and Silvester and Jamall, or that they had found me. But it happened. And now all that's left for me to do is to decide what I will do with what I've got.

So as you've probably gathered, I remain in my post. My Assistant Principal, three cluster teachers, two second grade teachers and one fifth grade teacher have left. Things are shaking, but they are also settling.

I'm off to see 25th Hour, so I must be brief. But I think it's time for a new look to this site. I'm not feeling very orange. Hip hip hooray (I hear out in the distance).

Have things gotten better at the Dirty Dozen, you may inquire? You better back up with that shit. (That's D.D. lingo) It's six hours a day in the Gibbon cage. My coping strategy is to stop living there constantly. I had a lovely weekend, celebrating birthdays and life, eating tacos, sirloin, deviled eggs, sweet and sour chicken, chorizo and eggs, and cookies. YUM. Went dancing at the Pyramid, jumping and scream-singing, my favorite kind. And I sorta found some resolution to my dissolution of expectations.

I could have found myself in a nice little teaching spot, say with second graders at one of the "model" schools. It's possible. I have friends there. But instead I was placed in hell for awhile. Sometimes people still say, "You're doing a good job with them," or even better, "You're such a good teacher," or once I got, "You're a hero." That was good. But everyday when I sigh, and then take in a slow breath big enough to fill the new and improved diaphragm, then scream-talk to pronounce my will over theirs, I simply say to myself, "I hate this."

I don't think the problem is with schools. The problem is with kids. I've got plenty of good, dedicated parents. It's the kids, and how they are influenced by what's around them. During one golden moment last Friday, some of my kids opened up about their fathers during a book discussion, fathers in and out of jail, who've killed people, who deprive their kids of love on a regular basis. That made me think for awhile about little Kevin's resentment, and Cherif's desire to inflict violence on his pop. But then there's Davon with his ma and dad right there, calm, guiding him sternly. Is it that people don't know how to parent? I don't know how to teach. I still think more responsibility should be placed on the kids. Maybe they're outright rebelling against the norms of this society as if to say fuck you white America, Eminem style. Fuck rules. Fuck making me do anything. I'm tired. I want to eat seeds and roll around on the floor, throw pencils, say fuck you to anyone who stands in my way. I don't know. I haven't gotten wise yet about these matters. Raising kids is quite the complex conundrum.

My resolution is that I can leave this behind without feeling like I couldn't cut it. I don't enjoy making people follow rules. Rules are what school is all about. I suppose it's what societies are all about, systems, yadayada. No thanks, folks. I'd like to fit into some other spot as a community helper. I have my dream job pretty clear in my head. I have trees and hills and open fields pretty clear in my head.

Sometimes finding yourself in extremely uncomfortable, non-form fitting situations tells you the things you need to know. For that, I thank my children. But I won't miss them next year. I'm not sentimental or idealistic about public school teaching in the least. I'm glad I'm here in the middle of it to know and to explore facets of our world. This one is shocking, but very real. Knowledge is liberation, my friends.

Philosopher V

"Demographics is desitiny in Texas tomorrow," so says some pollster talking to Lou Dobbs right now. Ron Kirk, he's our man. I have to say that politics has been boring the piss out of me over the past two years. Perhaps all the vim and vigor was syphoned out of me during the HISTORICAL, carnival-freak-show-esque past presidential election. Maybe it has something to do with 9/11, local debates losing their luster. But I read a great article on Kirk in the New Yorker a few months back and felt excited about championing the right choices again. Politics for me is all about what's right. It goes back to 1980 . . . while standing, waiting for the yellow school bus with Melissa Muench, the two of us got into it about what a pig Ronald Reagan was and how cool Jimmy Carter was, trying to rescue the hostages in Iran and all. (Future Habitat for Humanity peace, love and happiness guy, need I say more?). Well, Melissa didn't agree with me, so the two of us got loud, pointed fingers, and did a lot of standing with hands on hips. Nine years old, yeah. (historical tid bit--Melissa later became Miss Austin.)

I went on to University of Texas School of Government alumni status, worked for the elder statesman of the Texas House of Reps, and found my way into a seat in the audience of the Texas House Committee on Public Education's hearings for rewriting the state's education code. Fuel for my fire for the right choices, I tell you, Paul Sadler, he was my man--a now-retired state rep who headed that committee for 5 to 7 years. I am drawn by those who have the compass. They say what's right in a way you instantly recognize, but never could piece together in such a clear way yourself. Leaders define for us. They serve many purposes, but the one that makes me cry (I'm a bit of a freak show myself) is the way that they make oral art through definition.

Politicians have become our Howdy Doody cartoons, but leaders draw out the right amidst all that is messy. Go to the polls, all you Texans out there. Vote for Ron Kirk!

I've developed a strange tick

Sometimes in the morning when I'm arranging my room, moving chairs around and moving ten steps ahead in my head to the math, the Writer's Workshop, the gosh darn SFA!, I say "shhhh." No one's there.

When walking around a person or two in the busy subway underground, instead of saying "Watch it!" or "'scuse me," it comes out as "shhhh."

Then I say it back to myself to see if that's what really just came out of my mouth. "Shhhh"?

* * * * *

The news from 301--
I told a City College observer to get out of my room today. People skills. I got 'em. The kids are getting hyped up UP UPP. Today was muy mal. I was angry. Grrrr. But I'm not really discouraged like the Ms. Haley of old. I'm tired. Tired. But I think I'll whip 'em back to acting right. I've got to make parent phone calls up the wazoo, which I hate doing. DEspise. I told the lady to git! She didn't say a word, turned around and walked out. Taunting the forces . . .
(the principal accompanied by a police officer came a knocking during the last period today . . . so what else is new.)

Ms. Haley

Good morning friends. If any of you will be driving Texas way for the holidays, avoid the state of Virginia for gosh sakes (I'm watching Sunday Morning and Joey Chen reporting on the latest shooting).

Thanks for all the cents y'all chipped in. An update--they were able to figure out most of the boys who broke into my friend's room. Police officers were at our school on Thursday and Friday. The boys have parole officers now, and if they get another offense they will go to juvy. Apparently our principal gave the fourth grade a big speech with weight. Our school on Friday was more of a normal place, but I'm not fooled. These kids' moods swing wide. I do not know why they act out the way that they do. Seeing and hearing violence and having it well up within me is a disturbing place to be. I'm sure whatever is coming out of them is a result of their surroundings.

Drifting in and out of blog and Sunday Morning, the movie reviewer reviewing "The Grey Zone" quotes, "We are all in the ghetto."

I haven't made any decisions. I was able to have a very good day with my class on Friday. Those days help but are rare. I need the paycheck. That's a big motivator. Oh, and I want to be a teacher. That's motivator numero uno. Every first year is difficult, but is every first year violent?

Our job at PS Dirty Dozen (The Post grouped us as one of the 12 worst schools in the city) is to socialize these children. I don't believe I have any special talents in that area, no inclinations or affinities. I'm free-to-be-you-and-me girl. Never had the sales touch. I'm down with the mind, analytical processes, language, expression. Socialization is for social workers. Mom, Dad, how did this happen?

Joking aside, I'm not a social worker. I've lived, learned, and I know this about myself. When whimpers come out like "I suck . . . I can't do this," I'm saying this isn't me. We are most miserable when we try to be something we're not, right? But I do believe there are teaching jobs where you're primarily instructing. Alas, I'm going to keep at it this week. I hope I stay with it so that I can find myself in a rewarding teaching job perhaps next year or the year after with some stability in my life.

Me, me, me!!! What about you! Let's hear some posts about you!

I was going to blog last night with cheer, but the site wouldn't let me in. Perhaps it knew more than I. Today all I can say is, uuuuuugggghh. My brother warned me last night. He was right. Today I was hostile towards them. That's what lingers with me, my growing resentment for it all. I have four tables. One became a table of four boys who resisted their new seating arrangement. They got away with it, and proceeded to push my boundaries at every turn until they were throwing paper wads, one after the other, right at this poor little girl's head. I couldn't do anything to make them stop. I can't do a thing. I'm useless. I suck. I fucking hate it. There's no detention room right now, no one to call for aide, just me and my babies, threatening phone calls home, which I made tonight. But I hate them for doing it to me. I am taking it all personally, which is going to defeat me all the more.

Today the fourth graders rioted (about 70 of them), throwing chairs at Ms. Berry and Ms. Taylor, breaking the metal door handle off of Ms. Brown's door to break in and wreak havoc. They stole stuff and threw books and papers around the room. They inflict and they inflict. The smart ones (the teachers I mean) maintain themselves. They stay centered, thus maintaining their authority. I get angry. I scream at them. I've been manhandling my boys, yanking them by the shirt or coat to get them in line or to keep them inside my classroom or to make them sit down. I said, "Get the hell out of my room" today to this strange little girl who kept popping in. I don't even know who she is. Kids coming into the rooms all day! Whose kids? I'm sure some are mine after they decide it's time to roam. I feel like I have nothing on them to make them do the right thing, thus I don't. I see teachers who struggle and I see myself. I see teachers who are cool and who know who's boss. I don't have that. I can't seem to get it. And underneath it, I don't think I want to get it because it's not who I am. I don't know how to find it because it's so unnatural.

Terrific Tickets, they're Grrreat!

Shout out to Pinky B for your kind words last week. Shout out to Anne for your many superb inspirations. I believe in the bribe. I'm a believer. My friends who came in this week to shake up the joint (4 Fellows were sent over to help the international teachers--Americans take it to the mat) started this whole Terrific Ticket thing. You get a ticket for each thing you do right. Positive reinforcement all day long! Complete switch-a-roo from, "DAVONDAVONDAVON!!!!!!!!!" Now it's, "Thank you for being on task," "Thank you for raising your hand and not calling out." ["On task," "Calling out," "She's fresh," "He's fresh"--this is teacher speak.] "Fuckers" is also teacher speak, but only after hours.

So we had this whole blind drawing and prize giving at the end of the day. It was fun. Good times. One of the best girls won. My girls. And then two of my annoying-but ever-so-cute-in-a-weird-hateful-kind-of-way boys were stomping their feet, twisting, crying for ANOTHER DRAWING. "Only one a day," she says with glee.

I was laughing out loud, saying, "Straighten your lines!" hee, hee.

Prizes are so complex and psychological. They're amazing.

So today was a good day. Grace be to God.

Sistra Teach

the yard

Today was humbling (as is every day). I called in sick yesterday thanks to my sweet brother's insistence, slept for 15 hours, no shit, did some school-like stuff, and then went out to a comedy show last night for a few hours. I felt like a human being again, or at least that I was playing one on TV. So this morning it was back to PS in yo face, and what a difficult walk it was. I said "grrrrrr" as I entered my room, thinking, "What did they trash?" After a minute or two my eyes found their way to my board, which read: "Ms. Haley, we talked a lot, but weren't that bad. We miss you and hope that you're okay," signed 5 of my girls. Lashonda, my bad ass tough mama, who I love, wrote me that she loves me and misses me. What? And then tart Destini wrote that she followed my homework direction accordingly to sign each child out a library book. (no boys expressed no love, you know, but they feel it, right).

Well, anyway, that gave a jump start to my day. Downstairs in the yard it was a show. Every teacher in the place was on hand. We were told to keep our children there until they got it right. If they couldn't walk up right, we were to walk them back down. My class was the last to go up. We made it to floor two, and then headed back down. We made it to floor three, and then Ms. Garvey told us to go back down for one girl at the end of the line, leaning on the wall, and not in line. We went all the way back down to the yard, and slowly crept our way to the top of the building on the far end. (This was an hour after school starting time, no lie).

So the morning started off with children sitting in my chairs, but after an hour or so their unstoppable will crept back in and I was fighting them yet again. Not sure what to do, I asserted my authority by calling them out one by one in the hall (which never works, but today it did a little good). By noon, their heads were down with the lights off. They hadn't gotten the message, were talking all over the place, ignoring their classwork and me.

One of the APs gave me a long talk after school, saying that they see me as this mild mannered, petite woman. She told me to lower my voice and put on a show. To take vitamins and go in with as much energy as I can muster. Rough em up. Tear em down. Break em. Let them know I'm in charge.

I'm questioning all that because I've tried a million things. I'm not consistent with my persona everyday, which likely hurts me. Sometimes I'm more demanding. Sometimes they're so freaking crazy that I try to ignore their shit. Sometimes I'm zapped. I keep wanting to defend myself to me. Ms. C, who's telling me all this, told another teacher that she'd spent most of her day in my class and was wiped out. I spend every day there. But maybe it's such a chore, or more of one, because I'm not whipping them into shape.

Well, my principal told me this morning that it's my classroom, not theirs, and to do whatever it takes . . . "Whatever it takes." Any clue as to what she's talking about?

my whole school is wack! tid bits: 15 kids having a paper fight, disregarding lunch detention consequences, mother fucker, i don't fucking care, somebody said dildo, paper penises being made, two strangling attempts, doritos in yo face!, discipline board? my discipline board, ms. haley, seed spittin, trash can contents out the window, me locking kids out my room, 5 chanting down the hall as they stroll 20 paces behind my line. ridiculousness. so what do you think they're really saying, yo? that they rule the school? yes. that's it. they do. for fighting they write a sweet little note that retells their story. for disrespecting the teacher, breaking the rules, walking in and out of rooms, trashing the place, swiping, drinking on gin and juice with a side of now and laters they get lunch detention, a phone call home, told to walk themselves down to the detention room, left there alone while the dean gets his lunch, writing on the blackboard for fun, then granted the keys by being allowed to walk back when and how they please.

i writes my shit down.