Today’s writing inspiration comes from Susie Morice, writer and editor. She is a consultant with Santa Fe Center for Transformational School Leadership and the Institute for School Partnership at Washington University in St. Louis. Susie is also a Teacher-Consultant with The Gateway Writing Project, a former public school classroom teacher for 30 years, and a poet, who is the winner of Member-at-Large Best Poem, 2014 – Missouri State Poetry Society contest.
Inspiration
TWO SIDES OF A COIN. Often in our lives we approach something or someone and come to recognize there are two sides to an image, the person, the thing, the experience. This makes for a tangle that can evoke some crisp images. Perhaps two ways of looking at one thing: upside/downside; inside/outside/ before/after; old/young; reality/facade, or real/imagined … you get the idea. Of course, write about whatever moves you.
Process
- Start with a list of “coins” that have floated through your day or your life – COINS have had value to you at some juncture in your day/life. It might be a friend, a former friend; a spouse, a former spouse; a teacher; a student at the beginning of the year/at the end of the year; a vacation dream/the reality of the vacation; a new neighbor who’s imagined at first/the neighbor after time has passed; a walk in the woods in winter/in summer…
- Zero in on a coin that resonates with you… gets you really mumbling to yourself.
- Make two lists – one column on each side of a page to host ideas for the 2 sides of the coin – scrawl down words & phrases that recall colors, sounds, smells, shapes, textures that bubble up.
- Seek out a sounding board – talk to that sounding board about the coin – remind yourself of the value the coin holds/held. Share both sides of the coin. Jabber on! This discourse ignites details that otherwise might not emerge.
- Was there a shifting point that evoked the 2nd side of the coin? Perhaps not, but if there was, jot that down at the bottom of your two lists.
- Let yourself use those columns of descriptive details to launch a poem that takes the reader to the heart of the coin. It might be a two stanza poem. It might be a series of couplets. Write whatever works for the image that brings truth to the coin.
Susie’s Poem
“Summer School”
Always the same pair of cameo earrings,
those ivory silhouettes of lady faces
graced her ears;
buttoned into her white blouse every morning;
the thin gold locket at her throat;
she spun stories from Homer, poems from Dickinson,
myths of Orpheus and Eurydice.
They labeled her the spinster
and pointed their fingers and whispered
when they spotted her loose from Ballard High
after school
at the grocery smelling peaches
as the day cooled
down at the end of Blackenbecker Road.
She became invisible each day at four o’clock.
Or was she a moonflower,
unrecognizable,
as day rephrased into dusk pooling in the corners?
Did they see her unfold her hair
and drop that rush of thick auburn curl to her waist
and slip barefoot onto the dewy grass as the luna moths
emerged sending forth pheromones among the shellbark hickories
down by the river?
Did they hear the lilt of her songs
as she lifted notes to the evening air
and twirled in the shadows, her arms flung wide,
unwet from the cocoon of her classroom and living among the dryads.
Or did they see only
her watery blue eyes,
her sensible shoes,
her long, unringed fingers,
her untanned skin,
and misthink her world closed and sad?
Post your writing any time today. If the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome — any topic, any form. Please be sure to respond to at least three writers, too. Below are some suggestions for commenting with care. Oh, and a note about edits: The comment feature of this blog (and many blogs) does not permit edits. Since we are writing in short bursts, we all are understanding (and even welcome) the typos that remind us we are human.
Two Sides of Me
The me I want to be
and the me I am
are not the same person.
As long as we’re in the same room
within shouting distance
we’re good.
It’s a problem when one of us
(the me I am)
shuts the door on the other
(the me I want to be).
I hear her pounding at the door
But I’m tired, and being me is easier
Than being the me I want to be.
Once I lost her.
I couldn’t hear her calling.
I couldn’t see her cries scratched in the clouds.
I trudged away,
mangling my loneliness
chopping it with a butcher knife
rubbing it on my skin
and stuffing it in my nostrils.
So when the me I want to be
at last found me, rancid and swollen,
she barely recognized me.
Then she warmed a soft cloth with her tears
and wiped first my eyes,
then all of me.
She held cool water to my lips
and brushed the hair off my face.
We are one, she told me.
Ooo, Allison this is dandy, the two sides of you. This conversation brings a remarkably effective conflict into play. We struggle to be that other “me,” the perceived better “me.” Your words that push at the struggle— trudged, mangling, chopping butcher knife, stuffing it in my nostrils — wow, those are such powerfully conflicting acts. It’s a relieving shift to see the “mes” come into an alignment with the soft cloth, wiped eyes, cool water to my lips, brushed hair off my face—such kind gestures. Such effective sensory images! I really like the whole idea of this poem – your two sides in conflict and then in a sort of harmony. Thanks for posting this one this evening! Susie
Hi Allison–I love how this depicts, that ultimately, we are our own best friend. My favorite line that seems to form the pinnacle of the conflict for me is: mangling my loneliness
chopping it with a butcher knife
rubbing it on my skin
and stuffing it in my nostrils.
Transformation
The picture-taking queen!
How could I forget
to take the before and after pics
during the remodel
of the space you grew up in
Let me paint for you
a picture in words
of the transformation
I missed in photographs:
In the corner, a boy’s twin bed
is adorned with a Disney Cars bedspread
The whimsical adventurous of a young boy
reflected in the scenery of fun
with wall borders and art to match.
In the corner of the room
a lonely basketful of stuffed animal friends –
baby kitten, goose and chameleon,
baby puppy, butterfly, and dolphin
acquired from many family trips
wanting to play pet shop once again with you.
Against the bright blue wall
a bookshelf holds a myriad of stories
some childhood favorites read over and over,
some still awaiting your eyes
to unfold their mysteries and adventures.
Lego-built knick-knacks and soccer trophies
high up on shelves
telling their own stories
of fun-filled moments
reminiscent of childhood play.
I couldn’t bear to watch (and was glad I wasn’t there)
as the bed was taken down the stairs
to a new owner
To be replaced by a full-sized platform bed
Complete with a silvery grey cover, pillows,
and LED rope lights underneath.
A beautiful armoire stares out of the open closet now
A mirror reflecting framed race car posters –
A grown up version of a Cars theme;
and a chosen few stuffed friends
honored to remain –
PIkachu, Vaporeon, and Reuben the Pig.
The walls have been transformed from bright blue
to silvery-grey tones
complete with a paneled wall
behind a newly painted bookcase
holding now only young adult novels
still awaiting a chance to tell you their stories.
New cube-shelves up high
holding a cool plasma globe
and a picture of you and daddy eating snow,
the one childhood memory you allowed to remain.
I guess we held on as long as we could
inevitable it was
you grew up overnight
but the same wonderful young man is there
waiting to kiss me goodnight
as he snuggles under his covers.
Judy – You’ve captured a transition with your son that has a very real sense of nostalgia. The details of the small child’s Disney cars, boy blue, and stuffed animals have a sort of sweetness. Watching that shift to grown-up colors and a young man’s bed is both sad and wonderful. Lots of mom emotion here. Thank you for sharing, as I’m sure many of us can feel the “overnight” clock attached to our kids. Susie
Thanks for your response, Susie! It has been fun for me to write again! It’s been awhile. I seem to be stuck on a theme though… many emotions attached as I have two older boys grown and gone and he was my child born later in life, so I’m holding on to the childhood moments. Lucky for me I now have 3 grandkids- 7 months, 4 years, and 5 years!
Susie, this was beautiful. “Smelling peaches” pulls in the visual and olfactory imagery–I paused as soon as I read it to appreciate it. I also loved the power of this sequence:
Or did they see only
her watery blue eyes,
her sensible shoes,
her long, unringed fingers,
her untanned skin…
Susie, what a beautiful piece. I’m not sure the students ever saw her beyond the classroom. There are too many shared stories from teachers encountering students in real life to suggest otherwise, but I love that we were able to see her as the moonflower, slipping barefoot, lifting notes, and twirling in the shadows. I wonder what would become of her if she shared that side of herself in the classroom? Thank you for sharing this!
This is not my intended piece for today. I was only a couple of stanzas in when I received a phone call and traveled two hours to spend much of the day with my grandmother, who is struggling to hold onto life. She is 96, a WWII vet, and the reason I love books and writing. Instead, I’m posting what I remember from a poem I wrote for her when I was a teenager. Her name is Susanna Bauer and the play on words was intentional.
She lived inside the sheltered woods
inside Susanna’s bower.
The daffodil shone like the sun
as did the other flowers.
A garden she had planted there
of peas and squash and corn.
She worked long into the day
and began each cheerful morn.
She loved us and we loved her
so we spent many an hour
where children could laugh and sing and dance
inside Susanna’s bower.
Jennifer,
I am so sorry to hear about your grandmother. How wonderful that you were able to be beside her today and that we are able to meet this extraordinary woman through your verse. Indeed, you honor her with your love.
Jennifer Jowett, peace be with you. Just last weekend as I talked to my ailing father (age 89), I said again how much I treasure the gift of love of language that he gave to me. Thank you for sharing this lovely verse.
Jennifer – Your connection to your grandma is important and dear. Remembering her garden and the love you felt “inside Susanna’s bower was a heartfelt way to spend the day. I so appreciate that you shared this with us, especially as she ignited much of your love for books and writing. Susie
Jennifer,
Writing and poetry is such a wonderful way to connect to inner emotions and memories. Your grandmother sounds like such a beautiful person. Enjoy each moment with her reminiscing of all your wonderful times together, and I’m sure you will let her know the greatest gift she left with you is the joy of books and writing.
Oppositions
Relaxed alertness
Perplexed clarity
Serious hilarity
Voiceless conversation
Unfolding plans
Fake tans
Evil smile
Welcomed hazing
Cold ice blazing
Sometimes friends
Orderly learning
Truths yearning.
Ok, Dixie, I have to ask! Have you been collecting these pairs for a while? I don;t think I could sit down to write and come up with so many oxymorons. This would be great to use with students to teach them about oxymorons. I really enjoyed your interpretation of the prompt.
Hi Mo! And thank you so much. Yes, I just sat down and that off all of the opposing forces I feel in today’s world, and it just came together. I have some background with Synectics–a model fo teaching that uses creative thought, metaphor, and oxymorons for writing, so I mentally think of oxymorons from time to time.
I agree! What a perfect way to teach oxymorons. I like that this came together for you naturally as well. Thanks for this peek at this type of language.
I admit I wondered the same thing! What a great list!
Dixie — You definitely have some opposing sides here! Each one has a sure sense of meaning. I particularly identify with “voiceless conversation” — that vacant feeling. “Sometimes friends” — yes, I know them too. But as a teacher, the “orderly learning” is the doozy in the poem. Learning is such a messy business, but we consistently want to inject order, even when the learners demand that we let them experience and discover. This was a fun back-n-forth! Thanks for sharing your piece! Susie
Hi Susie! Thanks so much! That “orderly learning” line was a line drive to the way the department of education in my state approaches some issues in reading/learning, without much attention to the messiness you alluded to. Opposing ideas that seem irrational when brought together actually have deep meaning and make us think, for sure!
Dixie,
Amazing to see how words work in our lives to create new ways of seeing the world and imagining . I love these pairs, and as I reread, I find myself thinking of people I know sitting beside one another.
This poem delights me! I like the truth in “orderly learning” as an oxymoron. Learning is so incredibly MESSY!
The Day I Learned Coins Have Two Colors
Kennedy was President when I was born.
My grandma said he was a real good man
except for his weakness for women.
My dad said he made a mess of our nation,
trying to get blacks and whites to mix.
I was a third-grade student
at Abraham Lincoln Elementary School
when I first noticed skin color.
Until then, kids were just kids to me.
I came home from school
in late May
to find my mother watching a newsflash
about students fighting in our Alabama schools.
She said we had to move away from
all the niggers in town
because they were dangerous.
She said the black girls at local schools
had been attacking white girls
by yanking on their dangling earrings.
“No daughter of mine
is going to have her earlobes
slashed by a nigger,” she screamed.
So, a few months later,
we moved to a farmhouse in South Dakota
alongside a bunch of white people
who loved their cows, corn, wheat, and alfalfa.
I didn’t see another black person until 1984
when the bus dropped me off
at Fort McClellan, Alabama.
My Basic Training bunkmate
was a girl named Jazmin,
but I called her Jazzy.
She had the darkest skin tone
I had ever seen.
Pure black.
Our Drill Sergeant
paired us to complete
the bug collection safety assignment.
We had to collect and display
venomous and nuisance bugs:
one brown recluse,
one black widow,
six hissing cockroaches,
one striped bark scorpion,
two puss centipedes,
one burly tarantula,
twelve hungry fire ants,
and one mean mud dauber.
The giant cockroaches
were a trick to catch.
Jazzy and I
lowered ourselves four feet
into a filthy sewer on McGraw Street
and grabbed them
in one big chunk
by their spindly antennae.
We never did capture
a brown recluse spider
[better known as a fiddleback]
which is probably a good thing
since we wouldn’t want
our skin to fall off.
That day,
we decided together
that we love
our skin.
Oh, Valerie – Thank you, thank you, thank you for writing this honest, visceral poem! The two voices — the family elders and then your own voice that comes of age — deliver the lesson of the words we use and what we believe about each other. The move from Alabama to SD — holy cow — that’s some kinda serious decision. The shift from that harsh beginning with words that were so full of righteousness (“no daughter of mine…”) to 1984 and Ft. McC was remarkable. I am so grateful that your own humanity in the face of NASTY bugs was wonderfully intact and beautifully strong. What a difference it is to actually know another human being and to work together. You toss in a touch of humor that lifted some of the intensity with the phrase “since we wouldn’t want our skin to fall off.” Made me smile. And the irony of A. Lincoln Elementary School was certainly not lost. I absolutely LOVE the ending. This was riveting to read. Thank you for sharing! Susie
What I love most is the different levels of toxicity and venom in the poem, mixed together with the non-toxicity of true friendship. From the fake news of the perceived danger of a race to the venomous insects – what a way to capture the essence of pests! I love the ending of your poem – especially that the decision to love your skin happened four feet underground in a sewer attempting to catch bugs. Clever and symbolic!
Kim, I love your analysis here. My heart leapt when I read the poem, and you explained to me why.
Hi Valerie, I think the narrative style of this poem captures us indelibly into your story and of thinking of those experiences some have had–central moments–when people decide they will rise above racist conversations and perceptions around the dinner table. I hope this is published in a broader way so MANY others can read it.
Valerie, what a voice you have! I love the way each line is a short burst of detail that moves little by little (insect-like?). I especially like the subtle way you create the relationship between the speaker (you?) and the bunkmate (“I called her Jazzy”).
I LOVE your last stanza and how it fit so well within the narrative of the poem, especially as you were able to overcome the thoughts of your mother that could easily have become your thoughts. I could feel the anger in your mother. Feel the relationship you built with Jazzy. Thanks for sharing!
I am stunned and humbled to read this. You are my new favorite poet. Thank you.
Susie – I love all the little details that show the teacher at home, asked as questions. It reminds me how engaging questions can be.
Sunday Service
Everyone looks their best at church on Sunday. Ironed shirts. Pressed suits. Perfect Windsor knots. Shining shoes.
Quickly I change into gray sweatpants. Concert t-shirt. Bare feet
I see my grandparents. Cheeks kissed. Best friends hug. Community members firmly shake hands. Everyone is smiling. Neighborly.
Alone in my room, Metallica booms in my headphones, or shakes every window in the house.
Everyone sits and sits and sits. The organ breathes and moans. The choir belts out hymns. Archaic words. Off-pitch soprano.
It’s more fun to be in the choir. Standing. Harmonizing. Lost in the melodies. Locked onto the conductor’s every move. Race to the Social Hall for sugar cookies. Sweet, creamy coffee. Small talk.
It’s all about the message. The sermon. The life lessons shared as a congregation. The ancient words made relevant.
I read the books alone now.
I decipher the code in solitude.
Shaun — This rings so very familiar to me. You’ve juxtaposed the rituals and the Sunday “best” with that solitude that comes “now.” I really felt those old days of when I used to sing in the choir (definitely “more fun to be in the choir”) and the soloist was an “off-pitch soprano” and when we zipped to the Social Hall for sugar cookies….small talk.” It’s like I am there with you — I lived this. I also now live the “deciphering code in solitude.” You captured so many of the traditions and then the reality of Metallica booming, shaking the windows of the house. I enjoyed both sides of your coin! Thanks, Susie
Thank you for reading and for the supportive words!
This is so relatable (though I see a lot more concert t-shirt attire at Sunday masses now!). Your Metallica booms remind me of the music my dad used to play before we left for church (Bob Dylan – wow!). I loved the line, “the ancient words made relevant.” The journey to reach the place of deciphering codes in solitude is a long one, but very worthwhile. Thanks for sharing!
“The organ breathes and moans” was a line I FELT at a visceral level. You have touched a theme I’ve wanted to write about for years: losing (saving?) my religion. Thank you.
Susie,
My favorite part of your poem is
“Did they see her unfold her hair
and drop that rush of thick auburn curl to her waist
and slip barefoot onto the dewy grass as the luna moths
emerged sending forth pheromones among the shellbark hickories
down by the river?”
This is an amazing other side to the coin…..the way students might see us or that we might see others so properly and professionally dressed – changes after we leave the classroom. I started seeing a video of this woman leaving some French doors of her bedroom to step outside in the moonlight and twirl around and sing when I got to this part I mentioned. I love how your use of imagery just simply takes me there to see her – – minus the cameo! 🙂
Thanks, Kim. Cameo…ha…made me chuckle. Sometimes I think teachers are so completely misread by the rest of the world. It was fun to think of this sort of whimsical, almost erotic woman dancing barefoot in the dewy grass in the dark. Fun! Susie
Indeed! Your writing made me want to explore the fictional lives of teachers I remember!
Sarah — I really appreciate your videoing your writing process! This is truly a helpful example of what the messy process feels like in reality! Susie
My Daughter
baby girl, 7 pounds, 14 ounces
beautiful, smart, third year art student
the devil took you to the hell of
heroin, meth, and homelessness
tinted your windows with glassy eyes
tilted your world with blurred perception
traded your son for needles and pills
through it all, I prayed daily
and every time the phone rang: please not the morgue, please bring her back
but a call came
an arrest – hope!
an empty shell huddled in a cell, finally broken enough, willing to try living again
a reformative 9-month womb: the Bethany House
God performed another Technicolor miracle
righted your ship, focused your lens, restored your soul
I praise Him for re-gifting you, even better than before
and pray especially for the many still lurking in the shadows
– Kim Johnson
Holy mackerel, Kim – you unearthed a remarkably important, certainly critical coin here. To watch the shift from the “7 pounds, 14 ounces” to the “empty shell huddled in a cell” was terrifying. You have shared a depth of sadness and then rebirth that is truly gripping. You gave words to the shock and hurt and finally hope and faith. I am really grateful for the honesty of this poem. Word choices like “needles,” “pills,” “blurred perceptions,” “glassy eyes” certainly give images that face way too many folks, good folks, out there. The dread of the phone — such a real sensory gut punch. Thank you for walking down this path this morning. You left us with the awareness that it is too easy to find others may, indeed, be “still lurking in the shadows.” Susie
What she said. Wow. Your “7 pounds, 14 ounces” opening establishes the hopes of the mother powerfully. I TORE through your poem, wanting answers. You gave them to me (and refused to give them to me) with “still lurking in the shadows.” THANK you.
Hi, Kim. I started and stopped reading your poem three times because I couldn’t make it through the first stanza without crying. I love the contrast of ideas and words . . . arrest – hope, beautiful smart – devil hell. A mother’s love for her child is steadfast through the best of art school and the worst of homelessness. I can relate. Thanks for sharing this piece of your life with us today. -Valerie
Hello Kim, Thank you for writing this. Your poem, using the idea of two sides of a coin, represents the hope that can come from the despair and trials of life. I love how it transitioned from “tinted windows” and “tilted world” to “righted” ship and “focused” lens. Powerful poem.
Wow! We were lulled, albeit briefly, by the opening two lines (one I considered writing about as well) before being blown over by the devil’s hell. The lines, “tinted your windows… tilted your world… traded your son…” are incredibly powerful. I am so glad this had a happy ending. I love the symbolism of the “reformative 9-month womb” of Bethany House. Thank you for the courage to post such difficulties.
The Life of a Bookcase
Up on the highest shelf in my IKEA house,
I waited for you.
Cardboard and styrofoam
kept my corners in tact.
Plastic pouches of screws,
wordless instructions
tucked into my sides —
I waited for you
so that I could become.
You took me home.
Lovingly, your partner
unpacked my boards
assembled my legs,
raised my torso, neck, shoulders.
On my highest shelf,
I hold the words you treasure
bound in paper backs and hard covers.
I carry the stories that raised you
to teach other people’s children.
I frame journals crafted by your hands
of tears, of joy, of dreams.
Now I wait
for the treasures to be boxed,
for the shelves to be bare,
for the screws to be released,
to return to my cardboard home.
I will rest my shoulders
until you find a new place for us
to hold our stories.
Sarah — The sense of the bookcase as a sort of host is almost like a flower that opens and closes. In the same way that those priceless tomes and words come alive for us, even the case that moors these books has an identity that matters… the “I” is so aptly active in this relationship. I enjoyed the notion of your placing the most important words at the top shelf…. “stories that raised you to teach other people’s children.” Wonderful. When the screws are “released,” I feel that exhalation and “shoulders” rounding to take a breath until the flower/the bookcase comes back to life. And I chuckled at your “IKEA house” and facing those “wordless instructions” and all those screws. EEK! IKEA stuff is sublime and godawful all in one breath. LOL! Let’s just say, I’m daunted by IKEA and amazed that you can assemble and then disassemble with the anticipation of reassembling without pulling your hair out! HA! Cool poem! Thanks for the tiptoe into your moving tasks! Susie
Straight outta the mouth of a bookcase ( love the personification here) – my favorite line is “I waited for you so that I could become.” Entertaining that it was an IKEA bookcase – – it evokes an image in my head of “The Creation of Adam” by Michelangelo – – breathing life into a bookcase. Clever, creative and then at the end the complete trust that the bookcase can rest for awhile but will not be abandoned for some other bookcase. It’s making the journey to a new home with you!
Ahhhh! This goes along with your photos from today. The ending of this works so well – resting shoulders until finding a new place to hold our stories. I love that. It’s the stories from the writings as well as the stories told in the places we live. Having the bookshelf as the speaker was a commanding way to present this too. So very happy for you as you make this transition (and for the books, stories, and shelves that will travel with you).
Wow Sara! Even though I watched your video of how you worked through the writing process of this poem, you somehow made it even better when I read the completed version. I especially loved the lines: I carry the stories that raised you to teach other people’s children (powerful!), and the ending – I will rest my shoulders until you find a new place for us to hold our stories. Thank you for this wonderful piece!
Susie, this is one of my favorite things to think about- how much we think we know vs. how much we know. Your poem is lovely. The imagery in the second stanza is so gentle and loving. I especially love the image of the woman releasing her hair. It’s so evocative. of a quiet beauty and sereneness.
Susie —
I so love the two sides of this coin!
“Or was she a moonflower,
unrecognizable,
as day rephrased into dusk pooling in the corners?
Did they see her unfold her hair”
These lines offer such imagery of becoming with the moon becoming visible and the “unfolding” of her hair. I wonder about the value of keeping the two sides separate verses merging them when it comes to sharing our lives with one another.
Antwaan
When you walked in on the first day
I knew you were going to be trouble
That scowl
That swagger
That seemed to say, “Don’t mess with me.”
And your words!
Oh, those words!
Always teetering on the edge of being kicked out of class
Though somedays, I’ll admit I was too exhausted, and I let you win
Sending you to the dean’s office
To give both of us a much-needed break
It was your seventh-grade year
And you couldn’t read
You mumbled and stumbled through any work I gave you
Preferring not to do anything
Rather than lose face in front of your peers
In-School-Suspension was better than attending class
So, you fought, brawled, and sabotaged your school career
When your saintly grandma came in for a conference
She confessed she didn’t know if she could do it anymore
Raising another child of one of her children
I wondered if you knew she felt this way
She told me how
Your mom was killed
In a drive by
Meant for your dad
And that your dad was in jail
On an unrelated charge
So you were her responsibility now
And parenting is hard nowadays
Especially with a twelve-year-old boy
Who can’t sleep in his own bed
Because of the night terrors
And must be drugged to sleep every night
I watched her heart shatter again as she relived these moments
That had shaped you into the angry young man I saw each day in front of me
And my heart broke
Did you change, or did I?
I’m not sure I can answer that yet,
But I know something changed
Slowly
V E R Y S L O W L Y
We came to understand each other
You realized I wasn’t just another old lady
Trying to get into your business
And I realized you were just a boy who needed to be understood
And loved
For who he is
You started reading
And liking it
You saw yourself become successful
When you read 30 books in a school year,
We ran down to tell the principal
About your accomplishment
You were beaming
So was I
When you heard my daughter-in-law didn’t want to finish
Your favorite book, The Crossover,
You insisted I video you
Telling her why she must finish it
And then you asked me to send the video to The Man,
Kwame Alexander himself
So I did
You even thought about reading one of your poems
To the crowd of 200 at Family Reading Night
But backed out at the last second
I was proud of you anyway
Eighth grade graduation came soon enough
You were not the same menacing boy from seventh grade
But maybe I wasn’t the same, either
I thought you might break me in seventh grade,
But you wound up breaking my heart
With pride
With respect
With love
The bear hug you ran down the hall to give me before leaving
Stays with me even today
Oh gosh, Mo, we know this kid. This is so, so real. That you recognized that every face has behind it a deep story that matters is a testament to both you and Antwaan. While we come from different homes, we all can find the love in the complex places when we take the time to honor the story. You did this, and it really matters. Antwaan and you were transformed by Grandma’s story–so powerful to make this connection. A collaboration with open hearts. And I particularly liked that you addressed the poem to “you,” bringing Antwaan closer to all of us. The movement of the first lines of “swagger” and “scowl” to “pride,” “respect,” and “love” is no small thing. You built trust, the essential ingredient, in a place where trust was unfathomable. This is the very definition of transformation in both the poet and the subject of the poem. Beautiful! I wonder, will you share this with Antwaan? Thank you for sharing this wonderful young man! I feel privileged to come to know him through this poem. Susie
Thank you so much for the feedback, Susie. I debated about addressing the you, so I’m glad it worked for you. I’m thinking about sharing it with Antwaan, but he’s really a sensitive kid, so I don’t want to upset him. I know how to reach him- maybe for high school graduation next year!
Mo, I love the story your poem shares about the two sides of the coin of Antwaan – and the two sides of the coin of you as his teacher. I also ADORE the way you used The Crossover (I love this book) as part of your own crossover with Antwaan. Pure genius! And a heartwarming story about your ability to reach a student who was reachable by only someone like you who cared.
Thanks, Kim. Kwame is my hero. He has reached so many of my kids. Side note- I travelled to Ghana with him last year to open a library in a remote village. Think about joining us next year if you can. Check out his LEAP for Ghana organization.
Mo – this poem is so vivid. I relived all those emotions you described as I remembered my Antwaans.
Shaun, I know we all have them! I had to decide which student to write this poem about. Ultimately, he tugged at my heartstrings the most.
Love. Love. Love. This is a Kwame story all by itself. This is the story every educator has facing the student who challenges but just needs to be loved. loved. loved. I’m so glad you reached him and that he reached you. And that you found each other. What a beautiful tribute to that relationship.
Jennifer, thank you. I’m not crying. You’re crying!
Tears of happiness! I am choked up reading your poem. What a wonderful story that is told of the two sides of a coin. You gave this child the best gift ever – one of acceptance and love which turned into the biggest and brightest transformation. We have all known this child, but you have earned a few stars in heaven for not giving up hope.
Judy, thank you. I need all the stars in heaven I can get!
I am hooked on the loving writing shared here. Thank you for sharing not only the success, but the doubt and vulnerability that is extracted from us–wrung from us–each time we believe in a kid. Thank you for teaching, and for sharing it here.
Allison, don’t get me so emotional before bedtime! Thank you!
Susie,
Your poem captures much of the reality aging teachers face. Do I see a Prufrock allusion in the “peach” image? I can hear the whispering of those who have a chance encounter w/ the teacher outside the “cocoon of her classroom.” Every detail enriches the experience of reading this poem, and oh, how I relate to the misconceptions.
Aah, Glenda — You are a very sharp and versed reader. The peach with its difficult, teeth-cracking pit and yet the Missouri peach also, when ripe, is as fragrant and luscious as any fruit that might drip down your chin. Thanks for the feedback! I’m sure tickled you are in this poetry game again! Whoohoo! Susie