Today’s inspiration comes from Stacey Joy. Stacey is National Board Certified Teacher, Google Certified Educator, L.A. County and LAUSD Teacher of the Year with 35 years of elementary classroom teaching experience. She currently teaches 4th grade at Baldwin Hills Pilot & Gifted Magnet School. Stacey has served as a partner and guiding teacher for graduate students in the U.C.L.A. Teacher Education Program. Teaching her Joyteam students the power of knowledge, self-advocacy and justice are the core of her practice. Stacey is a poet at heart with one self-published book and several poems published in Savant Poetry Anthologies. Stacey is mom to her grown son, daughter and a Himalayan cat. Follow Stacey on Twitter @joyteamstars.
Inspiration
Today let’s write Dramatic Monologue Poems.
Sometimes people ask us to say something to our younger selves, your first-year teacher self, or your before-you-got-married self. Today’s inspiration comes from seeing a picture of me in 5th grade and remembering all the stress from being bullied. Then I thought about how important my teacher was at that time in my life. I’ve always wanted to be a teacher, so I studied my teachers closely. But the last two years of my elementary school education were particularly vivid.
Process
Take a mind journey in the past with your younger self. Be at a place where you made memories that stuck. Write a poem in your younger self’s voice speaking to an imagined listener (your adult self, your parent, teacher, etc.) Select a word from this suggested list to focus the location of your memories: Kitchen, Classroom, Stage, Dining Room Table, Bedroom, Hospital, Vehicle, Office.
Stacey’s Poem
“5th and 6th Grade Teacher Soldier”
I’ll never forget you,
Ms. Saito.
You did not play!
I felt safe in your classroom
You kept Richard away from me
Even though he was short and chubby
He devoured my courage
Did you know I was afraid
Outside of the classroom?
Did you know how much
I wanted to hide inside with you?
I volunteered to help
And you let me clean the tadpole’s tank
And organize the SRA reading cards
And sharpen pencils
Did you know you were my refuge?
I studied you
For two years
You stood tall and strong
And your pants never touched
Your super slim legs
I noticed yellowish stains on two fingertips
From smoking
Like my mom
Your thin dark lips
And stiff straight black hair
And the way your large eyes gazed
Across the room
But your head seemed stuck
You were a soldier
Teaching me the drills
My protector
On the front lines
Inside and outside
Our classroom
Write
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
It Will End
The hurt I feel for her never ceases,
and if anything it increases.
It always creeps on me like a monster in the night,
no matter how much I fight.
Sometimes the morning comes and the monster doesn’t leave,
I don’t know it doesn’t make sense to me.
I often forget how to live without feeling guilty,
and most of the time I just feel empty.
Empty because she’s not here,
and yes she’s alive and I should be thankful for that,
but she’ll be there for years and that’s time we’ll never get back.
She made her bed and now she must sleep,
but I feel like her soul will always be mine to keep.
I cannot explain why I’ve always felt this way,
perhaps in the future things will change.
Someday this pain will end, for me, for her, for all of our family and friends.
Someday we will reunite,
I can only hope that it is in this life.
So, remember that day,
In 3rd grade, when Sister Ernestine…
the one with a yellowish fuzzy moustache…
when she wrote on the chalkboard (yes, real, white chalk),
“If you want a date, see me after class”?
Girls weren’t entirely disgusting to you at that point.
The concept of a date was somewhat clear,
Thanks to episodes of Happy Days and Welcome Back, Kotter.
So, throughout the entire lesson, one thing was on your mind…
What is Sister Ernestine up to? Could this be true?
By the end of class you had built up the courage,
determined to accept the challenge!
In perfect, Sister Ernestine fashion,
she presented the small huddle of stragglers,
giddy with insatiable curiosity,
with a golden tin, full of
dates…
LOL! Shaun, this is great! I love the humor in this–and it’s so perfect for the age. The mention of “Sister” Ernestine makes it even funnier. She’s quite a well developed character in this…blond fuzzy mustache, perfect Sister Ernestine fashion, her wonderful question? This is a teacher that could get one’s attention! Well done.
Oh my goodness!!! This is a perfect way to end today’s challenge! Hilarious! Thank you for the chuckles.
Crazy Krysinski
is what we thought
going in to the first day
of sophomore English.
You, with your olive skin,
big brown eyes, and ridiculously long lashes
coated with layer upon layer of mascara.
Your maxi skirts billowed as you walked around the room
offering encouragement and asking
thought-provoking questions.
We got used to the wildly colored and patterned scarves
you wore to hold your mop of hair back,
just as we got used to you
and your slightly unconventional ways.
We expected a textbook and worksheets.
You gave us so much more.
You taught us how to read poetry,
to dig deep, think, and ask questions, though not always,
“What is the poet trying to say?”
You valued us.
You respected us.
You taught us to appreciate each other’s views.
I had no idea then how much your poetry and life lessons would mean to me.
For that, I thank you, Mrs. Krysinski.
Omg Mo! What a cool way to show us where you learned to appreciate poetry! She’s to be commended because look at you now! Bravo!
I really liked the glimpse into that sophomore English class. I could almost experience a day in that room through your eyes. Nice job!
Mo,
Your Mrs. Krysinski and I have lots in. I’m on. I’ve been called “crazy” and “feisty” by students. One year done girls asked if I ever wear anything besides pink. I had no idea that color dominated my wardrobe. I love how your poem moves from what you notice about Mrs. Kryzinski’s appearance to what you learned from her, especially the value of poetry.
Crazy like a fox, eh? What a wonderful portrait of a teacher that was so “her” that she allowed students to be their real selves. That really comes through in this poem. I hope you have had a chance to share this with Mrs. Krysinski in person. If not, I think all of us accept your thanks on this character’s behalf. What love!
I tried to follow the suggestions for today’s writing but this conversation kept bubbling up so I went with it.
Instructions and Insights
for my 26 year old self.
You were right to select him as your husband-to-be
as thrilled as you are now, enjoy it
you won’t always be this ecstatic
at times, there will be puddles coming from your eyes
nights where you run out in the middle
of the night trying to prove a point
(that’s not safe by the way)
times when you’ll wonder if he put a spell on you
there will also be a great deal of learning
you’ll find out how tragic a childhood can really be
you’ll learn the definition of trust has many variations
know that he is the truly devoted to you
your mother and family loves him and he loves them
that’s a good sign
having the big wedding at your
childhood church Holman
was a perfect idea.
It cemented the commitment
Waiting 5 years before having children was
GOD guiding you. You didn’t realize it but
you married a stranger and you needed
that time for him to
become your friend.
The two of you will have to
forgive each other a hundred times during
the next 31 years
That’s what marriage means for you.
He will be ready on DAY 1
to be a father to daughters
You will need 4-6 months to get the hang
of motherhood
he will comb, grease, and braid their hair
attend dance recitals, teach them to drive
and always make sure they have a few
things under the tree
you’ll have to check the homework
help with all essays and college apps
handle all conversations about men and dating
open the mail and plan all parties,
menus, and vacations
There will be a few moments when you
and your job have to carry the family
put on your big girl panties and
handle your business
you’re making the right choice
and just remember……..
he needs you more than you need him
you will forget that often
Here are a few practical tips
-Don’t plan romantic dinners during
heatwaves with a non-working fan
-teach him to turn the tv off when he leaves the room
-make him cook or provide dinner 2X a week
-lingerie helps
Seana, ah, to be 26 and know it all! I remember that well. Your poem is so honest- I love that! It would make excellent reading for a young engaged couple. I love the commitment you and your husband made to each other. I don’t know anyone with a perfect marriage, but yours is real. Thanks for sharing!
My friend, wow is not a big enough word!
Guess what! I was married at Holman too! 29 years and some months and bloody minutes later and NOPE BAD SITUATION! Thank God you have married the right one. This says it all:
“You didn’t realize it but
you married a stranger and you needed
that time for him to
become your friend.”
The KEY to honest and loving marriage!
Ha! Then you got it even better with a man who is cool with his part and your part!
“he will comb, grease, and braid their hair
attend dance recitals, teach them to drive
and always make sure they have a few
things under the tree…” What a gift!
And then take it on in to home plate with “lingerie helps!” Lord knows it helps you and him too!
Bless you my sister! You’ve done well!
Thanks Stacey. I’ve shared the other poems but he’s not reading this one. LOL
I am smiling here at your response about not sharing this one with him.
Love this poem, Seana. “You married a stranger and needed that time for him to become your friend.” Wow, this line hit me deep. We just had our 20 year anniversary, and sometimes I look over at him and think “who are you?” With each adventure, we are introduced to each other anew.
Seana, I have so enjoyed peeks into a world that is not mine this week. Thank you. I would love the title of this poem to be “Will” for all the things that he, she, they in the poem “will” be ready for. Or, “Thy Will” which would bring the sacred into it. Your last line after all the practical, hard work readiness makes me giggle…which such a nice soft landing from this real life poem. Bravo!
Apology
You weren’t the coolest
but you had a car
and that was something
You had an older sister
who let us get plastered
at her apartment
You had no curfew
oblivious parents
MTV
You had money
for Marlboro LIghts
and McDonald’s
You had a filthy mouth
you knew how
to get us both on the pill
I used you
posing friendship
transactional
We sneered
and postured
our way into parties
Clinging to the edge
of popularity
at a price
I didn’t see you
because I was looking
beyond your shoulder
At that next tier
the girls who didn’t
have to try as hard
As we did.
Oh, wow! At first I thought this was a boyfriend! I can envision the whole thread of this friendship. You set us up so that we should see that ending coming and yet, it is still a surprise. Those last two stanzas – you looking beyond her shoulder and the girls who didn’t have to try as hard. It drops us right back into high school.
Allison — A step into teenage vices and the mess that is teen hormonally impaired girls… you have brought us right back in time. The girl who “had a filthy mouth” and “sneered/and postured/our way into parties”…and always the kid who “had a car” and “no curfew” — it’s a wonder kids survive the teen years. The beauty of this poem is the “apology” of it and the reality of your own awareness of the insecurity in the ending lines. Teen girls are such a mess. Ha! Very real poem. I love how you carried us along and then delivered that reality in the end…real finesse! You craft such good poems. I’m always impressed. Hugs, Susie
Allison,
You had me here:
“You had money
for Marlboro LIghts
and McDonald’s” (the smoker I thought I was when I was a teen and of course who didn’t have McDonald’s?) Perfect description of those who could get what we needed!
But then the ending, the part that made me say, “Yessss!”
“I didn’t see you
because I was looking
beyond your shoulder
At that next tier
the girls who didn’t
have to try as hard
As we did.”
I love it! I tried so hard as a teen to “fit in” to be “cool” all that stupid crap and it’s that moment when we realize there is a better way that doesn’t cost us our souls.
I’m happy your path was many tiers higher!
Beautiful trip into the past.
Thank you for hearing me, Stacey. “A better way that doesn’t cost us our souls”–you nailed it. My soul was such a starved and wretched thing. I love how your poem invited me to revisit and rethink this experience.
Allison, OMG! what a terrific surprise. I loved it.
“you got us both the pill” I love that line!!
What a powerful memory! The shift in perspective is palpable. The speaker’s realization/recognition of what it all meant and making sense of it all – well done!
Allison,
I am so glad I circled back today to this poem challenge to see if there were any I hadn’t read. I swear I get so much more out of reading these than I do writing them.
This definitely puts my back in high school with the rich yet concise details. Unfortunately, I can completely relate. I feel like I was both the person looking beyond at times and the person who could feel someone looking beyond me.
The freedoms that drew you to this friend . . . I think so many of us had motivations for friendships.
I wonder what today’s teen will write about in the future . . .
Stacey, your poem says a lot! I started a different poem this evening but I ended up in 5th grade. Hmmmm. An important time of life.
This is very “drafty” as my friend Molly likes to say…honestly, I’m just writing to say I’ve written today. Long day, homework to get done still. Will catch up with comments as I can. Keep writing, people!
If I sit near the teachers at recess
I hear things.
Like who’s absent again, today.
And, what Mrs. McNair’s baking
for her neighbor who has cancer,
poor thing.
If I sit near the teachers at recess
I’m a perfectly acceptable book worm.
I can pretend that I don’t mind
getting picked last for partners
that I have to wear skirts, not jeans
and I don’t have permission to go to the dance.
I can pretend It’s OK that I’m not running
with the athletic kids or,
chatting with the pretty and popular girls.
When we come back inside
I’m not too loud, sweaty or dirty —
taking too long at the water fountain.
I raise my hand volunteering
to walk a note to the office,
return with purple dittos
and Mrs. McNair’s smile
as she asks if I could please
turn off the lights for the filmstrip.
If I sit near Mrs. McNair
as she turns the film to the beeps
I can smell her perfume.
I can pretend I’m her favorite
like her favorite blue pen
in her top desk drawer.
If I sit near Mrs. McNair
I’m important and remembered
someone who might grow up
to be a teacher
who sits near
astudent like me.
I’m instantly drawn in with “If I sit near the teacher at recess…” Wow, I wonder how many of my students may be thinking exactly that!
Oh and the purple dittos! I see those fingers all stained with ink! The sadness of “getting picked last for partners” is something I refuse to allow for any of my students for exactly that reason….it’s never forgotten.
I want to sob all over this from love and envy and remembrance. Mrs. McNair could be any of our most adored teachers who we want so badly to “see us” and “accept us” and “teach us.” I am in love with this poem and I don’t believe it’s “drafty” at all.
Linda — This is such a dear piece….the careful eye that this shy little girl has, noticing even “her favorite blue pen/in her top desk drawer.” That’s so precious. A little kiddo who really needed to be a teacher… I love the ending “to be a teacher/who sits near/a student like me.” Aww. I love this. I’ve always liked the whole notion of a little kid who listens in on adult conversations… doing this is such a lesson…we learned so much by listening to these adults around us. You really took me back to my own discreet eavesdropping. It was a magical thing I thought as a kid…still do. The repetition of Mrs. McNair’s name really works…what a kind teacher! This truly points to the huge value in that human-centered side of school… teachers who understood us…paid attention to us…let us be close (“near”). Despite your packed and busy day, you managed to deliver much more than a “drafty” poem! 🙂 Thanks for getting this to us! Susie
I love the images – I hear the “beep” that cued the next slide. Poems like this are going to need footnotes! Your poem reminded me of those times that I tried to, or succeeded, in becoming close to the teacher and be helpful and appreciated. Your poem had a way of conjuring m own memories. Thank you!
I am so glad I circled back to read this. I LOVE it. The specific images of my elementary school years . . . wow.
The ending really really works.
If this is a draft, I would love to see your polished pieces. This is incredible! But that’s what happens when there is a great prompt and your heart has a story to tell.
I am in tears at the end of this. It’s exactly why I pull for every one of those students and love them all so much! Thank you for reminding me of the impact a teacher can have, of the students who need to be near a Mrs. McNair, and for showing us what a beautiful person she was!
A World Beyond
Somehow
a world existed
beyond the one
I lived in.
A world where
everyone knew the plot line
and dressed the part,
following some internal memo
that had always felt external to me.
I could never crack the code,
read the clues,
find the pointer scene
where one of the characters
spells out everything that needs to happen
so that the rest of us can follow.
Instead
I wandered,
wallowing in Whitman’s words
and meandering along Frost’s roads,
finding my own paths,
forging ahead
through
beyond
and into my own universe.
Jennifer, your poem paints the world of so many of us who are consumed in books and words and writing. It’s a beautiful world! I hope tomorrow’s prompt calls your name and brings it home for you. (Can’t wait!)
Jennifer, “Crack the code” and “pointer scene” and “felt external” are all the reasons I resist and yet to disrupt “right readings.” The meandering is the meaning making, and I know you know this with the amazing work you do with your students. Brava!
The proverbial lost in literature way of living – and the truth is, it’s better than any realization of the drama that unfolds around us every day. Frost and Whitman wrote much better memos than the ones you never got.
Jennifer,
You could do worse than “Wallowing in Whitman’s words and meandering along Frost’s roads.” I love the alliteration and imagery of the road less traveled in those lines. Sometimes the subplot is a better story with more interesting characters anyway.
Jennifer, I always write my poems before reading others so that I don’t get paralyzed with imposter syndrome! But now reading yours I realize we wrote about the same thing: cracking that code. Our poems could be companions: yours the introvert, mine the extrovert. (I think the introvert “wins”!) Thank you for a lovely rendering of this universal theme.
I have to admit I could never have been as daring as you in high school, and a part of me envies that. Introversion can be confining and freeing at the same time; though I imagine the same could be said about extroversion. Yours has such a strong voice – something I aspire toward (I’m not sure the introvert ever gets there!)
Oh Jennifer, I HEARD your voice! And yes, extroversion has its own shackles. We need to write poems about this dichotomy! <3
Ahhh, Stacey! It requires such strength to be a teacher. I’m so glad you had Ms. Saito to protect your from those who would devour your courage away – such an important line. Courage doesn’t zap away. It is devoured bit by bit over time. I can envision her standing sentry-like with unmoving head and eyes roaming the room. Thanks for reminding us how important teachers are for those quiet children as well as for the more vocal ones.
Say that again! Whew! Today was a doozie! Thank you ?
September, 1955
Dear Miss Petersmeyer,
I’m writing this letter to clarify
just why you choose not to teach
the three new kids, the Jones boys,
how to read.
I want to clarify
just why you insist
the Jones boys sit
apart from everyone,
against the side wall.
I want to clarify
just why you ask me to teach
the Jones boys
how to read.
I want to clarify
that I’m just a second grade kid –
got no teaching papers –
all I’ve got is a loving delight
for the Jones boys
and school.
I want to clarify
that I’ll try the best I can,
but I’m curious why
you choose not to teach
three little boys.
Yours truly,
Susie Q
January, 2020
Dear Miss Petersmeyer,
I’m writing this letter to follow up,
to make clear just why
you chose not to teach
Wendell and Wilson and Clyde
how to read.
I need to make clear that my three little friends
were dear and eager
and disappointed to the bone
that you passed off your responsibility
to a second grader.
I need to make clear that you violated
every code in the education book
just because the Jones boys
were not like you.
I need to make clear that your cruel
rejection of the Jones boys
was racism I thought had died after 1954.
I need to make clear that your choice back then
still scrapes its cruel fingernails across the chalkboard of 2020,
in a nation that still denies
all the Jones boys
who deserve to learn
with a teacher who loves
to teach all kids.
Just to be clear,
I need for you to know
you were a stain on education,
an oozing pustule on our country,
one that I have spent
and will spend
all my days
trying to expergate
from our schools.
Very sincerely,
Susan Morice
by Susie Morice ©
I NEED A MEME, A GIF, A BILLBOARD, AND AN AUDIENCE TO STAND UP AND GIVE SUSIE HER STANDING OVATION!!!!
Ohhhh my goodness. Susie! This is downright incredible! It needs to be in education journals, newsletters, wherever!
This made me want to do three snaps around Mrs. Petersmeyer’s head because I know that voice! Ugghhh.
“I need to make clear that your choice back then
still scrapes its cruel fingernails across the chalkboard of 2020…”
But this right here took me just where I wanted to go with you and Mrs. Petersmeyer
“an oozing pustule on our country…”
Thank you for being you, Susie! I am just in awe over here with sandwich crumbs all over my desk because I was eating and reading and spilling!!!
I love how you chose to write to the same teacher decades apart rather than just settle with one letter. It helps to tell the story so much more richly.
I love so much of it, but “still scrapes its cruel fingernails across the chalkboard of 2020,” is just perfect.
You are truly such a skilled poet!
Holy moley! Tell us how you really feel, Susie!! This is amazing. I can hear the emotion from way out here on my IPad. I went back and checked the year of the first letter. 1955. Even then, I can’t imagine assigning a second grader. Although maybe they were better off with someone who saw beyond their color. She was indeed a stain and a pustule, oozing.
Your choice to write this as two letters works beautifully. You capture the little second grade child whose loving delight in the Jones boys makes us love them too. And then there’s the 2020 version of you. The one ready to smack down on the stains and oozing pustules. The one willing to expergate whoever to bring an end to racist ways. It’s an interesting twist that you named the Jones boys as your older you, something surely the younger you knew them as. This is such a powerful piece!
Dear Susie,
I want you to know how powerful your poem letters are, that I was not prepared for the time shift, so bravo for that surprise, that I see those boys Wendell, Wilson, and Clyde in you words and through your eyes, that your second grade self was more fair and wiser that that old Mrs. Petersmeyer (who reminds me of the Trunchbull in Matilda) will ever be. I also love the repetition of “I want to clarify” from second grade you, and you certainly did clarify. Yes, Mrs. Petersmeyer is a human “stain on eco action, an oozing pustule on our country.” You were a social justice warrior in second grade and remain one now.
BTW, I saw “Just Mercy” today. We have so much more work to do. I know folks here in Idaho are learning from that movie.
Wow. How beyond terrible that this happened. Your works paint a clear picture of the wrongs committed and how the author was swept into them. I’m so sorry. Like others, I think these poems…this call and response needs a wider audience. If you get this out to the public, please let us know. What an amazingly positive response to such rotten behavior. Well done, Susie.
OH, SUSIE! THANK you for writing both letters. That oozing pustule. That stain on education. “Your choice back then
still scrapes its cruel fingernails across the chalkboard of 2020” (LOVE that line!)
I love how you showed 1955 Susie’s confusion turned to 2020 Susie’s clarity, calling out the bigotry.
Your movement from “I want to clarify” to “Just to be clear” and then “I need for you to know” gave this poem a progression of intensity that made me want to SHOUT!
You are my hero.
Allison
I would never want to meet Susie in a dark alley. She has me quaking in my boots right now!
On your couch
I nestle in feety pajamas
hair still matted with bed-head
the dry flakes of a milk mustache tracing my lips
Captain Kangaroo on the TV
sassafras tea brewing in the background
On your couch
I snuggle into you
as you help me read Fun with Dick and Jane
you put aside the dirty dishes and dusting
giving Susan Jean Sewing Machine your undivided
the hum swirl and swoosh of the washer in the background
On your couch
I curl up with
my frazzled blankey
Baby Go Bye Bye cradled in close
thumb in mouth
eyes fluttering shut to nap
ears perking to Dinah Shore in the background
On your couch
I watch
and read
and snuggle
and sleep
and dream
On your couch
I feel safe
and loved and treasured
and nurtured and valued
and prioritized and noticed
On your couch
but not on mine.
By Susan Ahlbrand
In memory of childhood babysitter Ann Fulk
21 January 2020
Susan, what treasures here “on your couch, nestling, snuggling, curling up…” I can picture this so clearly! But you really had me going with Captain Kangaroo and Baby Go Bye Bye. Thank you for such vivid loving memories. Another poem that feels like my very own past!
Love it!
Susan — Amen for Ann and your loving memory. The image of your curled up at the beginning…so little girl…so cute…”Susan Jean Sewing Machine”… I just love those nicknames. I particularly loved that you felt “prioritized” — what a perfect word choice! This is totally dear…you had a very prized person in Ann! Thank you for this memory! Susie
The last line broke my heart. “On your couch, but not on mine.” I’m glad you had her, but sorry that you needed her. You created the setting with perfection—the sounds, the feels, the things.
Susan,
I love the specificity and strong imagery from your perch on the couch: Reading “Fun with Dick and Jane,” snuggling with “a frazzled blankey,” cradling “Baby Go Bye Bye.” Then the punch at the end when we realize you don’t feel “safe, loved, treasured, nurtured, valued, prioritized, noticed” on the couch in your home is heartbreaking as we know the babysitter’s couch is not a forever place.
Susan, Where can I begin? Captain Kangaroo and your milk mustache: what a great mirrored image.
You took me right into the cozy, accepting love of your babysitter–so much so that I was not expecting the shot of the ending. “But not on mine” was an ache I wasn’t expecting, and it turned me back to “re-see” your poem through the child who did not merely enjoy this coziness, but so urgently needed it. Thank you for making me feel and think.
A Conversation
I will never forget you
Sister Roseathea.
You opened my ears
to the world of music.
Those lunch time
glee club rehearsals
prevented me from
feeling alone in
the schoolyard.
I watched you
as you created a
school show
in our little auditorium
with cut-out decorations
and cute little props.
You allowed us to
wear pantsuits in 8th grade
a BIG deal in 1972.
You taught us to sing
“Joy to the World”
and not the Christmas carol version either.
I couldn’t believe
a nun could be so cool.
You knew how how to
draw us in
to honor our young
teenage selves.
You gave us an
opportunity to shine.
You inspired me
to become a music teacher.
I felt like you were
passing the torch,
and in turn
I created shows for my students
giving them a chance to shine.
Rita this makes my heart sing and I can’t sing a note! What the world needs is Sister Roseathea a million times over! You carry the music in the torch and keep lighting the way!
Beautiful poem!
Beautiful! I feel like I’m right there with Sister Roseathea! What a homage to her! “I couldn’t believe a nun could be so cool” . . . so honest and open. Isn’t it great when someone breaks the stereotype!
Well-done!
Rita,
My heart is melting reading your tribute to Sister Roseathea. That special teacher for me was Nydia May Jenkins, my high school speech, drama, and debate coach. I know that a pantsuit in 1972 was a real act of rebellion, and the Three Dog Night “Joy to the World” makes me want to sing. You and Sister shine in this poem. I can’t help but smile and feel the love.
Yay for Sister Roseathea! Thank you for introducing us to this cool nun! Love the line “and not the Christmas carol version either.” Those kinds of phrases offer that insider knowing that makes a poem sing!
The Underdog
I always root for the underdog
Maybe to be a little rebellious
Maybe to be snarky, or just different
How else do I cut through
All the badmouthing
From mom, from sisters
From the weighted, disapproving silence
Of my brother
They see, I see
An absent father,
A providing father
Who chose work over family,
Who knew support comes with sacrifice
Who is selfish, distant, arrogant,
Who is selfless, generous, wise
I want you to be the hero
Just someone misunderstood
Misjudged
The Pacific Ocean is a big place
Flooding the distance between us
Were you running from us?
Or redefining the role of father as provider?
Oh, we’ll never ask you
But you’ve got me in your corner
I’m rooting for you
The juxtaposition of the accusatory and the positive view is an interesting one. The stanza in which you say “I want you to be the hero
Just someone misunderstood
Misjudged”
That is every child’s hope, isn’t it? A poignant wish.
It really is all about perception, isn’t it (and definitions). Who know who or what is right?–but I’m rooting for you and your father. Glad you are in his corner.
Emily — This is so poignant and personal. I feel the heartstrings in this poem…the hope in “rooting for you”… yet, the daunting distance (“Pacific Ocean is a big place/Flooding the distance between us” — you ask those questions that burn through the skin of father-daughter relationships. I have hopes with you, hoping for the distance to disappear. Hugs, Susie
I don’t even know how I’m feeling about my feelings! I’m so mad at him and but then I want to root for him too! You are that compassionate spirit who would carry the underdog for the sake of its comfort and protection. What a blessing you are. My daughter must have a heart like yours. She still worships her dad, even though he failed her mom (me) and brother miserably. I have something to learn. Thank you for showing me this view from underneath the under dog.
Emily,
“Were you running from us?” WOW! That is one loaded question given the binary couplets throughout your poem. You’ve really made me think about what it means to “root for the underdog,”
Emily,
You show the belief in someone you love when all
the actions that others see are so definitive. When all others have given up, you’re still pulling for him. That’s what we do when we truly want to believe in someone!
Ms. Joy!
Your poem brought a huge smile to my face. I feel as though I can paint an image of Ms. Saito. What a sight! And it also reminds me so much of the kind of teacher I strive to be for my students. It’s been awhile since I was a student teacher at BH. Your writing reminded me of how I looked at you and Ms. B. Even though you were next door, I still learned so much from you and your energy. I try to bring it with me now in the classroom. Cheers to the Ms. Saitos and Ms. Joys of the world!
Emily, that is more than kind to express your gratitude here! Thank you so much for all that you are and all that you’re becoming in the world of education! Loving the fact that we are connected again through our poetry. Please come back every month! LOL, not going to let you get away that easy. Love and hugs.
Grandma Sancie
You were five feet two in your stocking feet
Two inches taller in your beloved red patent-leather heels.
Taller still in the minds of your students
And your granddaughter.
Hair in an upsweep, laugh at the ready
Perfect penmanship and equally perfect grammar.
You ran your 4th grade classroom like a benevolent general,
With love beneath the expectations.
No student wanted to stray from your path.
Your wrath, though rare, was a thing of power.
Something we would rather avoid.
You had many students before me, Grandma
And you gifted each one with a small bit of you
But I received your being, the core of your love.
It was both a blessing and a burden.
But aren’t most things that are worth having?
Bedtimes were the best,
Lying together in a twin bed,
You would make up a story for me
Then I would make one up for you
Words were my lullaby
Words became my refuge.
Along with Dick, Jane, and Sally
You taught me to read at three.
(I wanted that little terrier as my own–and that red dress Sally wore)
Opening a world for me that you never thought
would one day take me away from you.
Words were my refuge
Words became my power
Diagramming sentences with you gave me control over words
Spelling bees broke them apart and put them back together
You were always there, with your expectations
Your words
Asking more of me, always
Words carried power
Words carried hope
I carried your words with me
Sometimes as a blessing, sometimes a burden
Whispering that I could do better.
That I should do better.
Your “shoulds” still live in me today. Grandma.
And now I am a teacher
Five feet nine, tall boots instead of shiny red pumps.
Hair unpredictable, laugh at the ready
A usually benevolent general
With hard-to-read penmanship (but the grammar still holds)
Loving my students as you once loved yours
And setting boundaries just as you did for them
and for me.
I share bits of you with them every day.
Through my words and my actions.
Words carry hope
Words carry love.
Words carry you, Grandma Sancie.
Gayle, I feel like I was there with you and Grandma Sancie could’ve easily been my teacher too! I loved this:
“like a benevolent general
With love beneath the expectations.
No student wanted to stray from your path.
Your wrath, though rare, was a thing of power.
Something we would rather avoid.”
The teachers we knew loved us but we don’t dare cross them or stray away from right!
And then there’s the precious loving time you shared with her at night as Grandma and not teacher. This is LOVE:
Words were my lullaby
Words became my refuge.
I’m wondering how many of us here probably had a similar experience with words?? My mom was that Word Woman in my life. I love how Grandma Sancie was yours. Truly love your world with her! Thank you for sharing bits of her with us.
Holy cow! I love this!! As a daughter and granddaughter of teachers and now the mother of one, this poem hit me with a huge WHAM! of emotion. I love how you viewed it realistically as both a burden and a blessing. I know that I felt that way and my kids who had me in class felt that way. I always prayed that the blessing tipped the scales.
I love “And you gifted each one with a small bit of you” because I feel like we do give our students a bit of us, some a rather large chunk.
I love how you illustrate how you are like her and the subtle differences. And the last two stanzas pack a very powerful punch!
Gayle,
This is such a generous, loving monologue to your grandmother. I love “Diagramming sentences with you gave me control over words” and the implications inherent in that sentence. I’ve been called a “grammar queen” more than once. The ending is powerful: “Through my words and actions” your grandmother teaches along side you. Such a lovely thought.
Gator, what a touching legacy that lives on in you through your grandmother! This is just priceless – so real and heartfelt!
Gayle,
This is beautiful! I loved the repetition of words… I was my kids’ music teacher and it was a blessing and a burden for them and me. My son is now a music teacher. I can only hope he is giving a piece of me to his students.
Forgiveness Revoked
I quit forgiving you that night, Dad.
Lie to me, I’m used to it.
Tell me I’m stupid, I no longer care.
Promise me birthday gifts I’ll never receive –
I forgave all.
Missed school meetings, plays, and concerts,
I understood.
Your music was your life, as you often reminded us.
More so even than your daughters or wife,
I forgave them all for your passion of music, even when it turned to drugs.
But the day came when your forgiveness was revoked.
It wasn’t me you lied to anymore.
I wasn’t the one waiting patiently at the kitchen table,
Uneaten peanut butter sandwich barely clasped in slackening fingers,
Head awkwardly tilted back, guaranteed to cause a headache.
Instead, it was your favorite daughter, the one you adored,
The one who stayed up late with you, watching shark movies.
She refused to believe you weren’t coming for the promised dinner out,
Nor would she eat a bite nor go to bed.
For hours, she sat waiting and watching the empty driveway,
Tears running down her face, anger directed toward me
Because I was the one telling her you’d forgotten.
Debra,
Thank you for this poem. It’s dramatic and emotional words required me to pause and reread many stanzas. After reading your poem, I reread the first and last lines.
“I quit forgiving you that night, Dad”
“Because I was the only one telling her you’d forgotten”
This poem also holds sacred the sister relationship. It hits home for me in more than one way. Thank you.
This is so powerful. And true. It is easier to forgive when we are hurt; less so when someone we love is hurt. “Uneaten peanut butter sandwich barely clasped in slackening fingers” Your words paint a picture that is painful to observe.
GRrrrrrr! Debra, I hurt for you and your sister. Nothing hurts like a father’s broken promises to his daughters. Your poem says so much in two heavy stanzas, raw emotion, memories as clear as uneaten peanut butter sandwich, just hit so hard.
Praying you and your sister found peace within. Hugs.
Debra — This is a powerful, poignant piece. You build from the early lines a sense of rise and fall….forgiving and letting it all go by and then WHAM the cruelty to a loved one is a “close the door” moment. Boy, the damage that is done out of mindless and thereby cruel ignoring. Not showing up…not being present… a formula that = cruel disregard. Your images of the “favorite daughter” were so clear and hard to witness….”watching the empty driveway” — that use of what is NOT there is so effective. Really a hard-hitting poem. Susie
I heard your voice loud and clear here – such a powerful one. There’s the teen anger and the I’m over it attitude that captures far too many broken promises. But there’s also the voice of care and heart , the one that speaks for the favorite sister, the one who knows the heartache that sister will have to face someday too. Well-done!
Debra,
You are so justified to say, “Forgiveness Revoked” to your absent father. The “Lie to me, I’m used to it” with “Missed school meetings, plays, and concerts” all remind me of a child’s mercy, yet a time comes for the buck to stop. It seems as though we can take the abuse ourselves but can’t abide those we love taking it.
For me it was the absent mother for whom I sat on the porch and waited. We bought her a plane ticket to come visit in Idaho once. She didn’t come. She wasn’t there for the birth of my children either. Only after her death have I been able to begin to understand and have mercy for her. I keep reminding myself forgiveness is what we give ourselves, do for ourselves. It really isn’t about the person who has wronged us.
Debra, I am simply in awe of your honesty and poem to which many of us can relate in part if not in all. I’m so sorry for your pain – but I also know that the writing and sharing is so cathartic. I stand with you, friend – holding an uneaten sandwich and no longer awaiting unanswered questions.
Debra, your first lines are captivatingly sad and drew me right into your poem: Forgiveness ‘Revoked
I quit forgiving you that night, Dad.’ Your words immediately tugged at my heart–I would just substitute the word ‘alcohol’ for music for my experiences with my absentee father. When I did see him those 3 or 4 weekends when I was quite young, we ended up swerving all over the road from the VFW just to get home. That ended quickly. Oh, the potential damage and the dark memories from childhood—takes years to contemplate and work through. An ideal reason to be teachers–we can lift children into a lighter layer of life so they find their resilience. That’s what teachers did for me! Thank you for sharing this.
With tongue in cheek, I add another Grammama poem. Thanks for prompts that evoke fond memories and challenges to share them in different ways each day.
The Dining Room Table
My sisters and I giggled.
“Sit up straight.
No elbows on the table.
Bow your heads for the blessing.”
We could tell how hungry Grampoppa was
By the length of those blessings for the food.
Sometimes they were sermons;
Sometimes they were short.
My sisters and I giggled with glee
The blessing was short, that day.
We could start eating right away.
My sisters and I giggled in shame
We’d run out to the playground when it came.
That day we had chosen to stay late
We really we eager to wait
To see who would win the fight
Even though we knew it wasn’t right.
The throng spilled out the hallway and onto the playground.
It was my friend! I jumped in and got thrown to the ground.
Grammama lived across the street from the school
We didn’t have far to walk.
We didn’t have much time to talk.
So we when we were able
We replayed the day at the table.
As if Grammama could not hear
Even though she sat so near.
“Sit up straight.
No elbows on the table.
Bow your heads in shame.
You know it is not right to fight.
You know you must turn the other cheek.
Yes, turn your check even though you look meek.”
“But Grammama we want to look cool at school.
We know fighting is not right. But we can’t run.
Fleeing from a fight is not nearly as much fun.”
“Just do it. You’re a member of this family
We do not fist-fight. We do what’s right.”
My sisters and I stopped giggling.
We sat up straight with almost no wiggling.
Grammama led the blessing that day,
Asking for God’s help as she taught the Way.
Praying that we’d know what to say
The next time we were invited to fight.
That we would have the courage to do what’s right.
Too bad I had not listened
Too bad my face just glistened
When I came home from school the next day.
I didn’t have the courage to stand tall and say, “No way!”
It took years for me to draw
On the power of her prayers
To put my fists behind my back
Not viewing that act as a “lack”,
To stand tall and just say, “No way!”
To this day I recall her advice,
And most days, I act pretty nice.
We had lots of those prayers that lasted as long as sermons in our house, too. I smiled recalling those memories as I read your poem, Anna.
Anna I am happy to read another Grammama poem! This just made me smile…
“The blessing was short, that day.
We could start eating right away.
Funny how she prayed for you to do the right thing at the dinner table. I love that image. Lessons from those tables, hopefully are never forgotten right? So cute how I’m sure she knew you would eventually handle your business. Clearly you did that!
“Too bad I had not listened
Too bad my face just glistened
When I came home from school the next day.
I didn’t have the courage to stand tall and say, “No way!”
Love who you were then, who you’ve become, and whoever you grow old to be. It’s all beautiful and part of your life’s journey. Thanks so much for sharing these special prayers and moments with us.
Anna — This was quite a lesson. I love the setting of the dining room table. An awful lot of life lessons get played out in just such a setting. As a funny side, you have to listen to Lyle Lovett’s song called “Church.” It is absolutely hilarious. It’ll give you a giggle. Susie
https://youtu.be/zZI0zO2TS1Y
Susie, that is RIGHT ON! I invite others here to view this video Susie has linked here. If your family church tradition is different, you will have a better sense of some of the allusions made in the “memory” poems posted here.
Just as those from the Catholic tradition can identify with Sarah has written today, others will identify with this video.
Another great feature of this community of writers. We’re learning so much from one another!
And…since we’re sharing links, please take a moment to see this one: https://www.amazon.com/Grampoppa-Pictures-Anna-Small-Roseboro/dp/1546398074
One more day…then we’ll have next month’s challenges! What a great way to “get through” the winter.
So many lessons learned around the dinner table. Thank you for reminding me of some that I learned from my grandma at the table.
“There Goes My Happily Ever After”
There goes my happily ever after
Walking down that aisle, perched on three-inch heels,
Tripping on lace, a voice begging
“You do not have to say those two words:
I do, I do, I do.”
You said “I think he’s the one.”
I trusted your judgement, deferred to your will,
Listened to your pseudo wisdom.
I did not know to hear my own voice
Would be my salvation.
There’s more than one “be not unequally yolked,”
And so I lied I do, I do, I do.
Obedience to men has never been my strong suit.
Grandpa should have told you
That guy “never liked to work much”
Long before the split.
Where were my protectors?
You who made that death-bed promise to
Look after me. He trusted you.
Fool. You lied in your “I will I will I will.”
While I lay in a marital bed of my regret,
Do the dead speak?
Can the walking dead breathe?
What’s a near-dead man to say?
You brainwashed me,
Coerced me to love,
Convinced me of your righteous rightness,
Your just as I am mythology.
Still I could have played the part
Stepped onto the church stage,
Created a scandal, turned and hightailed
It down the aisle in the white dress.
I owed no one but myself obedience.
I learned that lesson too late.
That first night split my insides
Tore myself from myself.
I lived outside my body looking in
Twelve years. A mind is a conscious prison, a
Solitary confinement, a black hole,
I learned to cry in dark corners
Locked in darkness, sentencing myself to myself.
Until That Guy untied the knot.
—Glenda Funk
“Convinced me of your righteous rightness,
Your just as I am mythology.”
These lines jump out at me among all the other powerful lines in the poem. I know that person, living that same myth. A suitable farewell, Glenda. (Luckily, I didn’t marry my example. 🙂
Holy cow, Glenda — What a cruel lesson this was! I wanted to drag you out of that church and tear off that “white dress: and throw you a pair of jeans and tennis shoes to run like hell from those “twelve years.” I’ve walked down that wrong aisle myself, more than once, and sure did feel “my insides [tear] myself from myself.” Dang. The beginning lines, though, are so tough…knowing that “protectors” really sometimes just want the easy answer or the expected tradition. This makes my images of you traveling this summer with a man you love so much feel that Glenda is a healed women…at least, healed from this brutal memory. You’ve shared a very intimate and touching reality in this poem, Glenda, and I appreciate and feel it to the bone. Sending hugs, Susie
Glenda, I’m so glad we have all created a forum/family like this where we can share the truth of our experiences. I wanted to echo Susie’s sentiments about your summer travel. Thank you for sharing your poem today. It’s incredibly moving.
Glenda, my sister from another mister, LOL you have written my inner voice’s monologue! I know you know we share this story but wow the similarities are spooky!
THIS IS ME TOO:
You said “I think he’s the one.”
I trusted your judgement, deferred to your will,
Listened to your pseudo wisdom.
I did not know to hear my own voice
Would be my salvation. (Why didn’t I listen?)
THIS WAS ME:
Grandpa should have told you
That guy “never liked to work much”
Long before the split. (His ass was so damn lazy!)
THIS TOO:
A mind is a conscious prison, a
Solitary confinement, a black hole,
I learned to cry in dark corners
Locked in darkness, sentencing myself to myself.
Until That Guy untied the knot. (And in your greatest sorrows come your greatest blessings.)
I love this, you, your poetry and your journey!
“I owed no one but myself obedience” – a lesson we all need to hear! I keep reading it again and again. The ending of this piece has such power – I loved outside my body looking in… A mind is a conscious prison, a solitary confinement… I learned to cry in dark corners… sentencing myself to myself. I can’t pick the best one! And then you hit us with the final line. Lots to think about with this piece!
Glenda, These lines stand out for me,
I did not know to hear my own voice
Would be my salvation.
I did not know to hear my own voice
Would be my salvation.
So often, it’s years later that we realize how much wisdom there is in our own voices. We sometimes trust others more than we trust ourselves.
I do hope some younger members of our community are reading these poems and recognizing that it’s okay to say, “I don’t” or “I won’t”.
Glenda,
This rich and revealing voice that is so present in your writing today simply gives me chills. So many of the same situations I can relate to – and I’m so glad that we can share our experiences and feel the pain for others, understand our fellow writing community members, and feel less alone in some of our own younger selves and things we would change. I love the repeated lines – I do, I do, I do and I will, I will, I will. Very powerful.
Alleluia.
Now you lift your tatter-sweatered arm
palm like Jesus on the Cross,
cueing us to repeat the Word:
Alleluia.
Now you mark your page,
step down from the alter,
genuflect in Father, Son, Holy Spirit,
and kneel in the pew
just in front of me.
I know you will rest
palms in prayer until
the next hymn.
I watch your backside,
trace your frame–
back erect, wondering if you ever slouch;
hips narrow, wondering if you never sit;
seams creased, wondering if you wrinkle.
Is your family at home
like mine?
Do you like the solitude of the 7
like I?
Did you want to be a singer
like me?
Is cantoring what you had
in mind?
Are you also in a rock band?
Now you rise with knowing–
are those smiley-face socks?–
and return to the lecturn.
Now you lift your tatter-sweatered arm
palm like Jesus on the Cross,
cueing us to repeat the Word:
Hallelujah.
Did you just give me a wink?
Hallelujah.
Sarah,
This evokes a real out-of-body experience. I see you watching you, and through your words we, your readers, glimpse young you as “you lift your tattered-sweater arm.” That image saws so much about not having things but knowing this hallelujah moment offers much more finery. Love the repetition here and the church iconography in your verse.
The Catholic in me LOVES this poem! The poet in me envies this poem!
You pull images that perfectly reflect church practices. I positively love the simile “palm like Jesus on the Cross.”
I’m fearful I haven’t looked at this enough to fully understand, but I’m so very curious about the wink. I have to know more! Glenda’s response has my wheels spinning!
As a little girl just barely old enough to go to church by myself, I would. My home was wild with ten siblings, and I hated the chaos, so I would go to the 7 am mass on Sunday by myself. I would walk across a field and through apartment complexes almost two miles to get to that mass that so I didn’t have to endure the spectacle of my parents and siblings at the 10:30 when the community seemed on display. That 7 am mass was all acapella, and I was fascinated by the woman who would cantor the hymns. I watched her wondering if she noticed me (as I felt invisible most of my childhood), and I also wondered if, one day, she did not come to mass if I could cantor. My mind wandered a lot during mass.
I so love hearing a bit of the story behind the poem. Did you ever get to talk to her?
The fact that she winked at you just warms the heck out of my heart.
I’m struck by the Alleluia vs Hallelujah. Could you explain why you made the choices you did?
Sarah, I don’t know what I’m experiencing here, not fully, but it is love, all love. I feel as if you’re almost in “love” with her, especially after the wink and Hallelujah response. I know how much little girls fall in love with those they admired, so I’m not sure. This mental image I have of you is priceless. I can only imagine the little girl wanting to know it all, do it all, and be it all. Sing on, Sarah!!! Love your poem and this journey into the pews with little you!
Sarah,
I’m seeing some humor, feeling some regret, sensing some curiosity, observing some misunderstandings, and relating to so much of it myself. You leave enough unanswered for readers to be able to relate to the mysteries here. I love it.
Dear younger self who thinks you know it all,
Before you go any further in life,
arrange for yourself a dozen
non-family members
from different walks of life
who don’t know each other
who can give you advice and perspective
and share their stories
from neutral turf.
LISTEN TO THEM!
Feel your own heartbeat
against the backdrop of sound counsel
and don’t fear mistakes
but see them as experience
and learn from them.
Read all you can.
Get involved.
Speak out.
Help others.
Oh, and you’ll need millions in lottery winnings
to pay off your student loans.
1/21/15’s Powerball numbers will be 11-12-15-28-57
And the Powerball will be 23.
Sincerely,
Wiser self who realizes life has more questions than answers
Kim,
Good morning, my friend. Love knowing that you and Dixie were poeming at dawn with me in different places!
I love the balance of spiritual and practical. My favorite lines are
Feel your own heartbeat
against the backdrop of sound counsel
There is an in- and inter- dependence here that I think is so powerful and full of rhythm and movement.
Peace,
Sarah
Kim,
I love the advice to “listen to a dozen non-family members from different walks of life.” If we all did that what a better world we’d make. Love the hyperbole in “you’ll need millions in lottery winnings.” We make lots of jokes around here about winning the lottery. If only, right?
Kim,
What sage advice! Don’t you wish your younger self would listen (and buy that Lottery ticket!)? I wish that today’s young people would listen as well. You’ve written what most of us would love for our younger selves to do!
~Debbie
This brought a huge smile to my face! Thank you for sharing your poem. It’s youthful tone and bubbly rhythm makes it fun to read and reread. The playful bit with the lottery ticket numbers made me laugh. I wonder if our younger self would listen :).
Kim–Good advice for us all! I love the bringing in of a jury of impartial people to give you advice (the jury is my connection–is that why you chose that number?) Read all you can.
Get involved.
Speak out.
Help others.
Good goals, well spoken. (And the lottery advice is spot on.)
KIM — Oh my gosh, I’ve made this same pledge – “…arrange a dozen…who can give you advice and perspective…” I’ve made so many haywire choices in my life that I have vowed to tap my “board of directors” to guide me from here on out! HA! I love the capitalized “LISTEN TO THEM” since that is so difficult to do when in the throes os bad decisions. My favorite, though, is “see them as experience/and learn from them.” With a little powerball juju in the end, I am laughing at how crazy life can be. “…stories strung.” Love you, Susie
I’m tempted to play those numbers again, just to see what happens! There’s sound advice here. And a bit of irony in the fact that you ask for the wisdom of non-family members but are giving it from the person most closely related to you. I agree with Sarah’s favorite lines. The word sound emphasizes the heartbeat – a bit of a play on words as the meaning differs.
Kim, your poem speaks the wisdom we all would want our younger selves to gain. I love how you chose to “predict” the future with the Powerball. Clever!!! Should I try those numbers now? Divine words?
Wondering if I shared this with my 28-year old daughter if she’d see it as foolish old people. Lmao! She truly needs to read it and savor it.
Dear Mrs. Taylor,
Entering your first-grade classroom
With its long row of sunshine-filled windows
And white-topped desks in straight lines
Illuminated my world
In August—my favorite month
Because that’s when school started,
With its glossy workbooks,
the LIBRARY,
The fresh smell of cinnamon rolls
Each Friday.
After the first week, reading groups began.
The Sparrows, the Cardinals, the Bluebirds.
I loved school less when I somehow knew
I wasn’t in the best group, the top group—
I wasn’t considered an excellent reader,
Or perhaps not a reader at all.
Yet, I was.
Harold and the Purple Crayon
Ferdinand
Little Golden Books—ALL of them!
Aesop’s Fairytales
Winnie the Pooh and Christopher Robin
Aladdin and the Magic Carpet
My babysitter, Nancy, surrounded me
With these books when I was 3, 4, and 5—
Like a mosaic of worlds,
I walked with Harold, fell in love with Ferdinand,
Clasped hands with Cinderella and Rapunzel,
Cheered on Hansel and Gretel,
Cursed the evil witches and sorcerors,
And sailed the skies with Aladdin.
And somehow, I learned to read
Surrounded by that mosaic of worlds.
As a Cardinal, those worlds disappeared
And diminished
Into sounds and letters, nonsensical rhymes,
The perfect blue skies of Dick and Jane.
No more battles to fight or
Fears to conquer or celebrations of glory.
It took you about six months to realize
I could already read, and the monotonous
Phonics drills and stream of worksheets
Was only confusing me.
Finally, I made it to the Bluebird group.
Somehow, I preferred the magic of
The library.
Dixie,
Thank you for being here and sharing your life in verse. So appreciate the privilege of bearing witness to snapshots of your life in this way.
These lines stood out to me for sound and meaning:
I loved school less when I somehow knew
I wasn’t in the best…
You go on to share the books you read and the “mosaic” of words and worlds. I think about how those groups and the tracks in schools have it all wrong in their sorting mechanisms. How did the teacher know the different bird groups — a test, a miscue analysis, a fluency record? All arbitrary and text-dependent. Sorting to teach discrete skills or target students — is to keep out, segregate, label. Such damage based on arbitrary data — ugh.
Love this poem so much and wish every reading class could just be in the library!
Peace,
Sarah
Thank you Dear Sarah for organizing such a bountiful blog, which I share with all of my preservice teachers. Mostly for being a kindred spirit–hope to meet you at some point!
Dixie,
As I read and reread your poem Donalyn Miller’s words “Let my people read” echoed in my mind. Of course you preferred the library to worksheets. Who wouldn’t under the drill and kill scenario you describe. The evidence you were (and are) a reader is in that list of books. Bravo!
Dixie,
I love how you capture the difference between reading for the joy of it and the reading we so often force upon kids. If only we could all continue loving to read! I also like the bird names for the groups. My school didn’t have anything like that, but the juxtaposition between getting to the higher group and enjoying reading less was heart-wrenching!
Regards,
Debbie
Dixie–So many strong images–
“I walked with Harold, fell in love with Ferdinand,
Clasped hands with Cinderella and Rapunzel,
Cheered on Hansel and Gretel,”–the ability of books to take us elsewhere…
My heart ached for you when I read
“I loved school less when I somehow knew
I wasn’t in the best group, the top group—
I wasn’t considered an excellent reader,
Or perhaps not a reader at all.
Yet, I was.”]
You so vividly express the damage that leveling does. To be measured, and found wanting… How many souls do we crush? I am so glad that your skills were finally seen, but also that
“Somehow, I preferred the magic of
The library.”‘
Good for you. That teacher didn’t deserve you, anyway!
The emotion of this and the beauty of the specific details make this poem burn in my heart. Why do we teachers or the system kill students’ natural love of things. Standardized testing and other data pieces often lead us to overlook gifts. I’m sorry it happened to you, but I am glad you clearly still love the magic of reading.
Dixie — This description really resonates for me. I too experienced this godawful misplacement when my family finally moved to St. Louis from the farm. I got dumped into a remedial reading class in 7th grade (no records came from my farm school days). I gag when I think of those SRA cards with vapid reading excerpts. The “monotonous phonics drills” and “worksheets” … OMG, I hated this class. I gagged down about a month in that class till they yanked me out and put me in a “normal” elective. Geez! You really captured the travesty of these groupings. Amen for libraries. And now in the Missouri state legislature some cretin has introduced a bill that bans all sorts of books in libraries and demands that libraries that defy this legislation be defunded. We are facing down the Dark Ages all over again! Heaven help us! It also takes me back to Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird…when the teacher told her to wait…when she already knew how to read. Thank you for this terrific poem! Susie
Thank you for letting us take a walk through (and clasp hands with and curse) the mosaic world of the books you read. Your piece makes me wonder how many kids come ready to learn and are quickly disillusioned and whether there are as many as there once was. I’m hoping we’ve moved away from streams of worksheets. I’m glad you had the magic of the library to carry your through.
SRA cards! Oh, how I loved them….and to cheat up the ranks with colored pencils. lol