an exercise in iambic pentameter: mistaken identity 10/21/11

On a walk with Zoe in the fall

casting toward the river and the Plant,

She -- pulling, snuffling, loping, searching, gay --

I, strung out on the twilight of the day.

Round the bend, a woman held a leash;

looking west, her coat an engine-re.

Too eager for the winter chill, I felt,

with glorious, golden autumn dusk ahead.

Distracted for a moment by the dog,

I suddenly looked up again to find

the woman gone, and standing in her place

a fire hydrant on a piping base.

I laughed that I could make such a mistake!

But truly, the resemblance in the dusk

uncanny, and I swear I saw her face

expectant to the west, as for a dog.

     In the first moment I lost you

     A jarring recognition, seeing true

     The presence I thought waited there and breathed

     Was just a hole, covering a need.

writing about vista: part 3

(These installments were written during my second year as an Americorps VISTA volunteer & family involvement coordinator at an elementary school. Results may vary.)

6/16/11

shining skin

cheeks damp with tears that trace years down young faces

sun glints on windows under sad smiles and hands waving fiercely

furrowed brows, squinting lashes hold floods back tenuously

some proud, for the first time, to look on each other with unadulterated joy

a physical barrier grows up between those on the bus moving away

from books and bar graphs and behavior slips, beyond the fence,

out in the open now. Vulnerable

to the sun, to each other’s eyes, to the pulling

the pain of a three-month separation visible on each face

the taste of electric current, the connecting cord so taught and tangible that it buzzes

broken suddenly when the last bus disappears around the corner.

A catharsis of applause breaks the spell, and finally they can turn back

to the building, left in ruins, to heal, to steel their hearts for the boomerang.

i’m terrible at analysis.

i forget to differentiate means and ends.

i don’t set smart goals.

i don’t deal in measurable results.

i don’t feel in a way that shows yearly progress

but my feelings progress; my heart is full to bursting

and the task at hand feels insurmountable: release responsibility.

i cannot drop the weight, i cannot let go from a hug that has the power to suffocate.

what will they do next year? where will i go?

i cannot leave them.

it’s not about me, luckily. things aren’t fine, but they have the possibility to be better.

if my time here left them one thing, i hope it was to help paint one day new, with a sky where the sun is coming up.

writing about vista: part 2

(These installments were written during my second year as an Americorps VISTA volunteer & family involvement coordinator at an elementary school. Results may vary.)

 4/11/11

The gaggle congregates in the school library each Saturday morning. They trickle in, some as early as 7am (long before the doors open), some running up the walkway at 10:30 (with traces of sleep still crusted to their faces). They sign the sign-in sheet under “Student,” write their names on pilfered mail merge labels. A flurry of jackets tossed toward the couches becomes a rainbowed patchwork mountain.

They’ve almost always had breakfast already, but they always want to eat again: soggy, salty hashbrown triangles, four or five packets of jelly squeezed onto flat biscuits, still warm from the close quarters of their bursting paper bag. Ronald smiles out from the labels on the little bottles of milk. In our common language, smiles mean strength; breakfast means caring; focus means resiliency; laughter means comfort; mutual respect means adoration.

Sitting quietly or not at the substantial tables and chairs, they know the drill: folder, pencil, papers, tutor. It’s Math Time. Simple answers hide just behind flashcards, but more difficult facts are embedded deep in paragraphs to be extracted. They mine the minds of their elders, in search of bigger armaments for their tool belts. There’s no ruler to measure the gifts of the givers, no equation to quantify their effect. Except, perhaps, the intangible luminosity of a light bulb radiating above a head newly filled with incendiary combinations: knowledge, tenacity, self-esteem, endurance, passion, hope.

They say and do everything they can to be noticed, chosen, remembered. They say and do everything they can to get it right, to be good. They fall into the routine of agreement on their academic philosophies, their small promises not to surrender. Knights in shining armor aside, those in the room cooperate in fortifying the ramparts, making them strong enough to hold when tested. Together, they fashion shields that cannot be pierced by the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. In their quest for what is nobler, may they need no sleep to dream.

They gobble it all up. They put their heads together and dare to try. They grab our hands and pull us to the gym when it’s time to play. Each weekday, they pull on my clothes and knock on my door and call my name, 

Miss Julia! 

Will you be there on Saturday?

 

writing about vista: part 1

(These installments were written during my second year as an Americorps VISTA volunteer & family involvement coordinator at an elementary school. Results may vary.)

 1/27/11

i. on telling a story

my good intent: like best-laid plans

it tends to go awry

it follows no predetermined path

it follows instinct

a water strider making ripples on the surface of portent

scared into the middle by what’s brewing on the shore

its shadow warning living things below of the menace’s arrival

my steps issuing concentric circular signals

a beacon forming, illuminating fire doors

but i didn’t do it on purpose. i followed my instinct.

my subconscious a thick web of societal trust

my heart singing the story they taught me was worth telling

i was given feet that float long ago and expect thus

my courage dependent on silk woven to hold

ii. on service

you are not special. you are not one of them.

they are not yours to fix to help to make better to change

you are not the one who has the answers they need

you are not the one who has the money or the influence it takes

someone told you to be the change, it changed you

but you will not save the world today.

iii. on greatness

our great people say americans are special because we dare to dream

but i think we’re just fortunate enough to see dreams realized all around us

and brave(crazed) enough despite it all to say, “why not me?”

i didn’t learn that from a book, or a leader, or from history

i learned it at the north end elementary science fair.

a child who doesn’t know where she’ll sleep tonight

tells me she’s going to save the world

and i believe her, so

i begin again to dream of a world worth saving

it’s my job to help make it before she puts her cape on

i stopped sharing my writing for a month.

it's not the fever rush anymore. it doesn't have much to do with how i feel. it's not that i don't have things to say, or that i haven't been saying them. just not here, now. why?

there is a small sunporch behind my eyes where Inertia lives, taking up space that causes tension headaches. she is not kind or good, but she is the most popular in class and i want to be her because she's pretty and she doesn't have to try. she can sit and play make believe for hours, for years, and never look up. she can let the world go by, blithe and glassy-eyed, staring momentarily out the windows before turning back to what's inside. she wraps herself in blankets and hibernates: the sleep of the snow queen.

unfortunately, time catches up. it breaks a window and reaches in to shake her so hard it hurts. the pain in her neck spreads like tributaries down every limb. it is so overwhelming that she shuts her eyes weakly and waits. when it subsides, she cannot find herself.

time gripped me by the shoulders, whispered irrevocable words. "your father will die," he said. not today, or tomorrow, but someday. "we all die," that bastard shook into me. "even fathers."

i haven't found my reply.

yet.

i am obsessed with solange knowles' outfit

Seriously, the rest of the women in this Jezebel slide show can Ess a Dee. They all look exactly the same... until... ba-BAM! Tiny skirts run hiding from the power of this look!

Ok. I know when I wear giant sack-sweaters with high-waisted pants and a floppy hat, my friends put their sunglasses on, sink inconspicuously into their chairs, and give strangers pleading "Help! She escaped from the home and kidnapped me!" faces. Those friends can now officially ALSO Ess a Dee. Thanks, Solange.

Women

March 8th is the birthday of not only one but TWO young women very close to my heart. One a friend since very early childhood, another a family member and role model all my life. Thank you to these two for making the world a better place by being around! 

Besides that, it was inter-nat'lwomen'sday!!! Women all over the world celebrate this holiday -- in Cameroon, there's an official Women's Day pagne that is sported in myriad sizes and styles by all women who can, and there are parades and festivities. I'm not sure when the pagne trend will hit the US... hopefully ASAP. Maybe y'all should take a hint from me, or one of these ladies.

I could just keep adding onto this post forever... but it's time to stop editing and just post. Here are some recent items about women: a random amalgam.

Never-before-seen photos of the young Madonna. The linked photo is my favorite but from 26 on it's pretty amazing. Those eyes. The pictures taken with the -- "street kids"? "dancers"? -- are they her friends, or did she just find and embrace/ogle them?

"Women of the World" slideshow from Reuter's

The Great Wall of Vagina ?! Are you KIDDING ME, this artist is the best!

A former wife grieves. You know, she might be getting a ton of hate mail for writing disparaging remarks about a famous and talented musician, but it was refreshing for me to read this. I don't think it's vengeful, though she's clearly having a lot of negative emotions toward Carney. She seems to be telling these stories as carefully as she can -- recreating how it felt at the time -- I think that's what good writers can do. Of course it isn't objective, and neither are his reflections on their relationship in the new album. Love can be a shitty, messy, claustrophobic and unhealthy thing, but it always starts out good. A good (or the worst? hardest?) thing to remember when you're going through shit with someone, to remember what was good, what you valued.

Jane Feltes is how I imagine the older sister I never had: beautiful big bangs, knows everything, and doesn't mind when I watch her get ready for her dates from directly over her shoulder, or when I accidentally mush down all her lipsticks.

Women in Haiti in danger. I read this and think about what to do when people's lives are so unstable and invisible, when women are being hurt so badly, when they aren't getting the govt protection they deserve as citizens. I can't forget this and everything that's happened since last January. Here's where I go to find out if there's anything I can do.

There is, and I 'd argue that it's not just about women's rights to safety in Haiti when I see things like this. There is just so much to say.... but, most importantly: wherever we are in the world, we need to look out for each other. The world gets so heavy, but instead of letting it press us down, it must press us on. Every day, every day, every day.