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.

Hoops

I find inspiration in strange places sometimes.  After jotting words, snatches of poetry, and paragraphs of thoughts on napkins, church bulletins, and counselor meeting power points, I started carrying a little notebook in my purse at all times.  And if for some reason there is nothing to write on, I have the notes pages in my phone. 

I was cleaning my purse out a few minutes ago and came across this little bit of silliness.  This one was in my little notebook, written at the score table during a girls basketball game this season while I was keeping stats.  Good times.

Hoops

 

Squeak on hardwood
Smell of sweat
Bright lights shining
Swish of net

Mommas yelling
Players cheer
Hot shots fake
Show no fear

Leather pounding
Pom poms shake
Fast break layup
Another make

Score is tied up
Hold our breath
Whole crowd praying
Nothing but net

Slammin'

My school is going to have a poetry slam in a couple of weeks.  I'd never tried writing slam before, but I've always liked the form.  Really, Slam is meant to be spoken and heard.  Not read.  If you've never experienced it, you've missed out on something awesome.  Google it.  PBS did a documentary on Slam last year that was really incredible.  It's a form that really appeals to youth.  It's very honest and kind of in your face.

Last week after watching a couple Slams on YouTube, I got inspired and wrote one of my own.  I think it's pretty good, but it's not really appropriate for performing for students.  Well actually, I think students would get it.  But since I'm a school representative, it might not be the best plan.  I figured I'd post it.  My apologies for the language, but I wrote it with the thought of the kids who are the subject matter also being the audience.  Just remember, it wasn't meant to be read.  It was meant to be performed.

Tired

 

I.  Am. Tired.
Of looking across my desk
Into the blood shot eyes of the future
And asking the question, “Do you smoke?”

And they stare, eyes wide, as if it’s a joke.
And say, “What?  Why do you ask that Ms.?”
Like I’m the one who’s been smoking some really good shit.

But I haven’t.  And I don’t.  And they don’t understand. 
Why?  How does she know?  And I try to convince them
That all it takes is a good look at a transcript.
And attendance.  And an Academic Plan
To see they’ve been smoking and don’t give a damn.

You see that’s the problem with smokin’
Spend your weekends tokin’
Then pretty soon it’s mornings to just get through the day
And they have all these reasons of why it’s ok

It’s not a problem.  No big deal.  “I got this Ms.”
And maybe for a while that’s true. 
But then.  It’s a lie.
Spend your whole life denyin’, trying’
to justify.  Why?

Truth is.  Smokin’ takes away your “I care."
And I look across my desk into that blood shot stare.
And I want to cry.  As I watch another one of my kids
Flushing his future down the drain.
I wonder why I strain. 

And work so hard.  And talk
And preach, and beg, and plead with them when it sometimes feels
Like I’m the only one fighting.  For their lives.
But there’s always that one.  That one who survives.

Who walks away.  And stops the madness.  And loses friends. 
But finds himself.  His, “I care.”  His, “I give a damn.”
And suddenly, BAM!
His upside down world is magically back.  Right side up.
And there is hope.  And a future.
And it’s all worthwhile.

I.  Am.  Tired.
Of looking across my desk
Into the blood shot eyes of the future
And asking the question, “Do you smoke?”
It's no joke.

And I won’t stop asking. 
Because I DO give a damn.

The A-Word

My librarian posted on FB last night about Rihanna being a great singer but unhealthy in her personal life.  It lead to a conversation between us about how we could teach our girls that getting hit by someone who claims to love you is not ok.  It is an issue we see and deal with in high school nearly every day.  I have felt an internal indictment ever since.

I have written this post in my mind a thousand times.  I have shared this story with people in person.  At first, for the purpose of healing.  Later, when prompted, for the purpose of ministry.  To share it here is far scarier to me.  But it feels like the right time.



It was a moment I will never forget.  A realization that changed my life forever.  A  paradigm shift.  The beginning.

It was about a month after I left.  I had assumed my Saturday post walk position in my recliner, watching mindless television that I could tune out and think to while keeping my hands busy on my first crochet therapy project.

This day, instead of watching “Criminal Minds” and “Law and Order” reruns, I landed on a movie, Sleeping With The Enemy.  It was something familiar; I’d seen it before.  Something  that I didn’t have to watch closely; I could escape into my head.  That was the point.

I was paying only passing attention, focused on the pattern of my blanket:  eight double crochet, skip two, eight double crochet, three double crochet in the same stitch, repeat.  Mindlessly counting stitches. Until the music indicated a change in scene. 

I looked up and watched as Julia Roberts straightened towels so their patterns matched up.  Then a frantic pass through the kitchen cabinets, desperately checking the cans to make sure the labels were all facing forward.

I watched her panicked frenzy and sat paralyzed, unable to take my eyes off the screen.  She ran around trying to make everything perfect.  Her fear palpable.  And a fog began to clear in my mind.  My heart.

I knew her fear.  Silent tears streamed down my face.  I felt her fear.  Her hopeless resignation.  The short lived joy of her courageous escape.    The heart pounding anxiety of living a life looking over your shoulder.

That was me.  When the movie ended, I muted the sound and sat stunned. 

It is so easy, for me anyway, to look at other people, other relationships, and see what is broken.  Or missing.  But in my own, I had spent so many years trying to make it look good on the outside to everyone else, that I had convinced my own self of its wonderfulness.  That was the biggest deception. 

But sitting there watching Julia Roberts.  Feeling the fear.  The desperation.  The fog of deception was burned away.  For the first time, I allowed myself to see the truth of my own brokenness.

Abuse.

I didn’t say it out loud.  Not for months.  I couldn’t.  It was far too scary a word.  But to myself, I began to admit that I had been in an abusive relationship.

To be clear, I have never been physically beaten.  No one has ever hit me or burned me or locked me up.  I think that is why the A-word had never occurred to me before.  But there are all kinds of abuse.  Physical.  Verbal.  Sexual.  Emotional.

About thirty minutes after the movie ended, I began researching abuse online.  I didn’t really understand how I could feel all those same things the character in the movie did when no one had ever physically harmed me.

I ended up ordering five or six books from Amazon.  Books about battered women, abuse, bullying between friends.  The next couple of months I read through all of them.  It was painful.  I would read a chapter, highlighting things that connected with me, and then cry.  I also did a lot of writing and reflecting and crocheting.  Eventually, I began talking about it with my mom and my closest two friends. 

Healing is a beautiful and terrible thing.  It sort of reminds me of severe burn victims.  Those wounds have to be scraped and cleaned and treated.  And it is excruciating.  But it is the only way to healing.

Admitting I had the A-word in my life was just the tip of the iceberg.  After that, the wounds had to be scraped and cleaned and treated.  Repeatedly.  But eventually, healing began.  It continues still.



I am not done with this topic or this story.  But I find that I will have to share it in installments.  One can only scrape so much at one time.  There is one thing about which I wish to be very clear though.  I am writing this as a continued part of my own healing.  But I’m also writing because I see far too many girls and women in similar situations.  And I think there is too much silence on the topic.  Especially among church folks.  It is about owning my piece of the story.  I played a role in it.  And I am the key to making sure it never happens again.  But those are stories for another day.

Plants Are People Too

WalMart plants remind me of kids who come from a difficult socioeconomic background.  They need extra food and water, love, and time.  But if you are willing to invest a little of yourself, especially time and love, they grow up as strong and beautiful as nursery flowers.

These Petunias needed some deadheading and cleanup for sure, and they had a sad little hole in the center where the stalks had all been pushed aside and were a little smooshed.  But I loved their brightness and saw potential.

 

These two little guys needed a little work.  The one on the left lived outside for a bit last summer; he didn't like it.  The one on the right is from Big Momma and just needed a bigger pot.  These guys have mostly outgrown their pots and needed fresh soil. 

 

Don't they look happier now?  I think they will be much happier together.  Sometimes a change of scenery and soil is just the thing.

 

These two guys have fantastic potential, but they have already outgrown these pots.  Their poor little roots are coming out of their pots.  They need room to grow.  They could stay in these pots, but they'd never reach their potential.  How sad would that be?

     

See how much happier they are with room to grow?  And I'd bet that within a couple of months, provided I don't neglect them, they will need even bigger pots.

 

 

 And of course, it's time for making babies!  My favorite.  Notice the little brown bumps on the stalk of the pieces on the left?  That is where their little roots will begin to grow.  I love this part, watching them root and grow.  I'll keep adding water to this glass, and their roots will keep on growing until they are ready to be planted.  I've found that the longer I let them root, the better they will grow later. 

 

These plants aren't particularly high maintenance.  But they do need to be noticed.  Acknowledged.  Given occasional love and attention.  Kind of like people.

Leftovers

Earlier today I was "listening" to a friend, we were messaging on FB.  What she was feeling is something I've experienced.  Probably most people have at one time or another.  And it brought to mind something I wrote a couple years ago, April of 2011 to be exact.  I decided to share it here on faith that my readers, all 4 of you, can handle it.  :)  I figure it never hurts to shake things up a little.  Afterall, it's after midnight on my first official night of Spring Break!  Woohoo!!!

Leftovers

 

When the meat loaf is over

Dessert is done

Everyone full to the brim,

I’m the peas left on the plate.

Pushed around in the juices

Made to look like they were eaten.

 

But the peas get scraped in the trash

Or if they’re lucky, fed to the dog

A distant memory.

 

When supper is finished

The dishes dried

Appetites sated for the day,

I’m the leftovers in Ziplocs

Thrown in the back of the fridge

So you feel better about not being wasteful.

 

But the leftovers land in the disposal

Or if they’re lucky, tomorrow’s lunch

Inhaled between meetings.

 

Someday I wanna be the main dish

Savored slowly

Filling you up with me.

No leftovers on this plate

Enjoyed and licked clean

Dressed up and presented on fine china.

 

No leftovers gone to waste

The lucky chosen, feeds on me

His last supper.

Book Review: 139 pages of YUM!

For my book reading readers, I decided to write some short book reviews.  I’ve never really written a book review per se, so I don’t really know if there is a specific formula.  So I’ll pretend we are at Starbucks sipping our favorite drinks, grandesoymochanowhip for me, and tell you what I thought about the most recent book I read. 

Wouldn’t Take Nothing For My Journey Now is a very short, reflective book by Maya Angelou.  I love Maya’s poetry.  (Notice how I called her Maya?  That’s because she feels like a friend.)  I love this book because it has one of the same qualities of poetry that I enjoy.  It is the essence of wisdom she has learned throughout her life.  It isn’t a long expository or biography.  It is the boiled down “stock” of her wisdom on being a woman, love, loss, and many other topics.  She doesn’t carry on about it all; she says it plainly in two pages and then moves on to the next chapter.  Short and sweet.  Like a poem.

Get this book and put it aside for an afternoon when you want to indulge yourself while also learning something good and wholesome and right.  Bring a highlighter and a cup of tea and tune out the world for an hour to enjoy this great read.