Slammin' Follow Up

I went to my first Poetry Slam this afternoon, and what a delight.  I was so impressed with our kids who had the courage to get in front of their peers and speak from their hearts.  Whether they read their on poem or someone else's, it was their thoughts.  Their ability to stand up and be heard.  I was super proud.

I must confess though, that at one particular moment, I was a little bummed that I didn't get to share what I had written.  In fact, I was a little annoyed.  Ok, let's be honest.  For about three minutes and fifty-two seconds I was angry.  And then I got over myself. 

And here is why.

Over the last week, I've had the opportunity to share that poem (which you can find here) with some kids in a setting that was more appropriate and very powerful. 

One day last week, I had a young man in my office whose junior year has pretty much gone down the toilet.  I suspected by looking at his transcript and attendance that he smoked.  And when I refer to smoking here, I'm not talking about cigarettes.  So I asked him the question.  Do you smoke?  And of course the answer was "yes...but only on the weekends now."  That always makes me chuckle. 

So we spent the next 30 minutes mapping out a plan for how he can recover credit, get back on track, and graduate on time next year.  He'd given up because he didn't think there was hope.  I just showed him the way.  I didn't do any super fancy counselor tricks.  I just showed him how it could be possible.

Then I asked him if he was familiar with slam poetry.  Surprisingly, he was.  So I told him I'd written one for him.  He looked at me with surprise, and I asked him if he wanted to hear it.  He did.  I read it.  His eyes bugged out, and he said, "Damn Ms.  You really did write that for me."  Awesome.  Then we talked about it.  About how he needed to find his "I care."  Such a God moment. 

Not an hour later, two girls show up, friends.  One of them starts asking me questions about summer school and whether or not she can graduate on time.  I went through the same process with her.  I explained the magic of yearly averaging.  Mapped out a plan. Her face came alive; spark returned to her eyes.

Then I asked the question.  Do you smoke?  "No," she said.  I gave her the look.  It's sort of similar to the look your mom gives you when she asks if you did something and you lie and she knows your lying...yeah.  That look.  I said, "Seriously?!"  She said, "No Ms."  Then I explained how she wasn't in trouble, but her grades and transcript and attendance told a different story.  I asked again.  Gently.  She hung her head and said, "Yeah." 

I switched and talked to her friend for a few minutes and basically mapped out the same things for her.  No super sneaky counselor tricks.  Just laid out the facts.

Then I told them that they couldn't leave.  That they had to listen.  Again, I asked if they knew about slam poetry.  They didn't.  I explained.  Then I told them I'd written something for them.  I opened it.  I'm pretty familiar with it at this point and can really speak it to them.  Look them in the eyes.  And of course I changed the pronouns to feminine ones. 

The first girl completely teared up.  The second one said, "Wow.  That's awesome.  It IS for us."  So unbelievably powerful.  I could not believe this had happened twice in one day.  And the tears.  The connection.  I can't even describe it. 

So back to today's poetry slam.  I stood at the back of the room looking over the audience and realized that some of those kids were just the ones I wrote about.  So at an intermission, I went and spoke to three of my kids.  Told them I needed to see them afterward.

When it was over, I took them back to my office and told them I'd written something for the slam but it was rejected because it was inappropriate.  But that I'd written it for them.  It's so funny.  If you tell them you wrote something rebellious, they get all kinds of excited.  Cracked me up. 

So we go to my office and shut the door.  I pull it up on the computer.  Look each of them in the eye.  And speak my heart to them through this crazy poem.  I teared up this time.  Because these are my kids.  These babies were 11th graders at the beginning of the year.  But several teachers and I have ridden them like crazy to get them to do what they need to do.  And they.  Are going.  To graduate. 

And they cried too.  And it was awesome.  And then of course they wanted to talk about make up hours and grades, and I gave them the speech again about how they better not mess up in these last couple of weeks.  Because that's what you do when you're a momma. 

Another of my kids has started referring to me as his second mom, except he says it in Spanish.  I asked him what the Spanish word for son was.  "Mijo," he said.  Later I was telling my secretary about this exchange, and she said the word for son is "hijo".  The word he gave me to call him means "my son".   

Tengo muchos mijos y mijas.