Vacation Poem and Reflections

"Granana, do you think we will ever take that vacation again?"

I was tucking 9 year-old Thomas into bed at home after our road trip that had taken him, his two brothers Ben (14) and Danny (10), me and Michael to Williamsburg, 

zip lining in Fayetteville, NC, a tour of the Special Ops museum there, a sterling visit with Aunt Lisa and Uncle Dean Lofthouse, miniature golfing, one day in the Magic Kingdom, 

to the Atlantic for a swim with Lee Ann and Collin Spillane and back home to DC, all in a week.  A whirlwind by any definition.

"No, Thomas. Sweetie, the world doesn't work that way. Even if we went to all the same places next year, it wouldn't be the same.  All we can do is remember it for all that it was and all the fun we had."

VACATION

Vacation

takes me places,

where

I can't ever say

I've never been

before

again.

And when a place is

different, I am

different too.

I can look outside

and in

and still enjoy

the view.

Home is

only one place

here,

I am surrounded by the same,

expected to wear certain brands

and always act my name.

Vacation

takes me places,

there

I shop for the unknown.

Try on something new.

Pocket the change,
and bring it home.

A Graduation Poem: Stepping Out

I wrote this poem for my daughter Kelly's graduation from Bay Village High School.  At the time, I was working as the Public Information Officer for the Cuyahoga Metropolitan Housing Authority (as I explain in the video) in inner city Cleveland and living in Bay Village, OH.  Everyday was a lesson in a term that is being thrown around a lot these days, but wasn't mentioned much 20 years ago: Income Inequality.  My time at the housing authority enriched me more than any other job I have held, except maybe visiting schools all over the world.

This particular video was shot at the International School of Kuala Lumpur while Michael Salinger and I were visiting in the fall of 2012. I was reminded of the poem lately as I watch pictures of new graduates, hopeful and smiling, flash across my Facebook feed.  Privileged young people with a responsibility to build bridges across the great and growing divide that is income inequality.

Good luck to you all!

Wanted in Michigan

No one climbs aboard a bicycle and proclaims, “I want to crash and fall on my head.  Bring on the broken bones.” No one puts a cake in the oven hoping it will come out burned black and tasting like a hockey puck. Likewise, people don’t get married because they want to get divorced.  If they did, American Tuxedo would rent helmets. 

When a marriage crashes or turns into a hockey puck, it isn’t because the partners want it to happen.  Divorce is like volunteering for amputation without the anesthetic. Who would ever wish for that?

My parents were divorced. I was an adult when it happened, but that doesn’t mean it was easy on me. My marriage also ended.  Didn’t want either one of these things to happen. Just did.  Today I can say, I am pretty glad things turned out as they did.  I like my life.  But, I can’t say, could never say, that I wanted divorce to be part of who I am.

So this knowing was the impetus for my poem, Wanted.  Today, that poem is wanted by teachers in Michigan as it (unpredictably) is a component in their state standards.  The state didn’t choose to provide the poem to teachers for classroom use, they just assigned it.  Unfortunately the book that originally contained the poem has gone out of print.  So teachers have been writing to me (apologetically) asking for the text of the poem. 

Some would say (and have) that divorce is no topic for kids’ poetry.  Kids’ poetry should be about balloons rising, spinning till you fall over, or castles in the air, in ancient times, in Spain. Anywhere and anything except the dismemberment of the castle in which a kid currently resides.  It’s true that the poems that pop out when pulling your finger out of your nose are funny (perfectly okay with editors) and a (ick) represent a pretty universal experience, it’s also true that divorce happens. 

In my world, real happenings are the stuff of poems. I spent about 15 years writing poetry in my kid voice before I had anything published.  I had never been to a book fair or teacher’s conference where children’s poetry was discussed.  I didn’t know writing kids’ poetry came with a set of rules having nothing to do with iambs, quatrains or free verse.  I didn’t know there were topics that kids’ poets just didn’t write about, like divorce. Death and war are okay topics, but only if they are old news, not breaking news. 

My first editor suggested I divorce all my divorce poems from the others and make a book of poems just on that topic.  My response was a big no to that idea.  I mean, seriously.  Who would check that book out of the library? After I wore that first editor out, the second one suggested that since she had an intact marriage and so had her parents (lucky her, exactly the opposite of my experience) that only certain kids would be able to identify with the topic of divorce and therefore, poems on divorce should not be included in any collection.  “You have a skewed perception based on your experience,” she told me, “Most kids are happy.”

“Not in my neighborhood,” I said.  True, I may be a little askew, but what do I have except my own perception?  From what I could see, divorce had touched the lives of every kid I knew, if not their own parents, then a friend had moved away, a cousin got squirrely, a friend wound up in tears at school, even grandparents have been known to split up.  Besides, nobody as in NOBODY is happy all the time. I got a third editor.

One reviewer suggested when my book Am I Naturally this Crazy was published that I was making light of kids' feelings because I used rhyme in this particular poem.  No rhymes allowed when speaking of divorce to kids?  Who wrote that rule?

Crazy even got banned in one district that I know of because not only did it contain a poem about divorce, but also about a current war (double whammy).  Writing about divorce, a rather tight-lipped librarian explained, meant I was “anti family values.”  Did she mean I didn’t value my family because we spread ourselves over two houses? Where do people get these ideas?

Funny how a few words arranged in shortened lines can take on a life of their own. Since the book this poem first appeared in is out of print, this particular word collection is hard to find.

I may never have wanted to know about divorce, but I do want teachers and kids to have access to this poem. 

Freed from Accelerated Reader Stress

I received this email from my daughter Kelly yesterday.  Go Kelly!  Go Danny!  Following in the family tradition of being plain-clothes revolutionaries.

Mom,

Since the beginning of September the dreaded AR points have been hanging over Danny's head.  At Danny's school 4th graders need 12 points a month to go to the carnival at the end of the year.  The minimum monthly points required at his school for 4th graders is 4 points or you get disciplined by the principal.  She will "cut a corner" off your behavior card.  I'm not sure what that even means but each student has one card and I imagine you only have 4 corners.  What happens when they're all cut off?  Public stoning?  Jail?  No idea but according to Danny, it isn't good.

But Danny has never been the type of kid to just do the minimum to get by, so 4 points was never good enough for him.  He was aiming for 12!  Because that's what our family does.  We don't aim for C's we aim for A's...  right?

During September Danny read some Joey Pigza books do get the points.  But the language, topic and mood of the story was difficult for Danny so he begged me to sit and read with him (or, to be quite honest, to him).  That was hard for me because his younger brother having Autism needs a lot of help with homework and everyone tries to get their homework done right after school.  It was hard for me to help two boys at once so the reading became a stressor and was aIways pushed off until later in the evening when we were all exhausted.  And when Dad came and visited he saw Danny was so stressed out about finishing his book before the end of September (so he could take the test before the end of the month), Dad and Danny sat and finished one of the books together.  Then the same thing happened when you came to visit in October, remember?

After that Danny was done with Joey Pigza and grabbed "The Lightning Thief."  He was aiming high!  12 points for one book.  All he would have to do was read one book for the whole month and take the test and get his points.  One problem, he couldn't get through it.  Not on his own.  He begged me to read with him again because he just wasn't getting into it.  Plus it was taking him a long time to read and that was stressing him out because he needed to finish it before the end of the month to get the points in.

Around the end of October, after he lost the school government election to the kid that ran on the premise that he had the most AR points in their grade, I sat down with a defeated Danny who was absolutely beginning to HATE reading.  And he told me he was feeling "stupid" cause he couldn't get the reading done.  The AR system, the pressure from the school (whether deliberate or perceived), the other kids bragging about their AR points and the carnival were destroying his love of reading.  It was time for something drastic.

I had to have a sit-down with Danny.  I explained to him how absurd and pointless this AR system was and that in this case, we're going to make an exception and just do the minimum required.  What a lesson I was teaching my son but it was time for an intervention.  I told him to forget the carnival and I would let him stay home from school that day and take him to a movie and to ice cream, whatever he wanted.  I told him to aim for just 4 points and month (do we didn't have to deal with the dreaded corner cutting) and only choose the books that he likes to get the points.

It is now 3 weeks into November and he's just about to complete his 4th Diary of a Wimpy Kid book.  The type of books he loves.  Now he comes home from school, reads on his own curled up in the big chair in my family room because he loves the story, the characters, the humor.  He loves reading again.  And now he slaps the book on the coffee table when he finishes and says "done!"  And then walks outside to jump on the trampoline.  :)

The funny thing is he's still on track to get the points he needs for the silly carnival at the end of the year.  But now it's not about that anymore.  He's not reading for points he's began to love reading again.

Today he asked me if he still gets enough points for the carnival at the end of each month, if we can still skip school the day of the carnival and spend the day together.  Of course I told him we could.   

Me

Happy New You, 2012

Michael took this picture (okay, I begged and whined a little asking for this angle and that) in the botanical gardens in Singapore.  I was limping along and this sculpture embodied who I wanted to be.

So, this is my screen saver and pictorial inspiration for 2012. 

2012.  Riding into the second decade of this new century. 

Wheeeeeeeee!

Cousins Take Manahattan

August Reflections

August light turns in by eight
and night comes early in the forest
lullabied
by crickets' chorus,
shrilly sung crescendos
by a choir that no one sees.

A piece of poem.
Don't know when I wrote it, but when ripened tomatoes start to sag on drying vines and shadows begin to lengthen in late afternoon, it floats through my mind, looking for a place to go.



Last week Danny, Scotty, Sara and Thomas and I went creeking. I've talked to many teacher groups about this creek. How on one frosty Easter morning I used my walking stick to roll one rock on top of another so I could tip toe across and not get my feet wet.

I asked my friend, is that fair? To move the rock like that? Maybe we should just play them as they lay. "I don't know," she answered, "if I were a rock, I wouldn't want to stay in the same place for the rest of my life."



I went home and asked my daughter Kelly what she thought. Was it fair to move the rock? She reminded me that there were organisms living under that rock. Move the rock and you have disturbed the habitat. So I asked her football/golfer boyfriend (soon to be husband) Brian, and he said definitely, no. You move the rock, you take the sport out of it.



So, on this hot August day, no frost to be found, I visit the same creek with two of their sons, Dan and Thomas. We talk about whether to take the high road or the low road beside the creek. We confer with Scotty and Sara. And we all manage to round the bend and follow the creek with (mostly) dry feet, even though the mud DID try to suck the shoe off of Dan's foot during one rock maneuver. Life, like the creek, is constantly moving on.

Back then I also asked my friend Sharon Draper in an email, what did she think about moving the rock and she quick shot back an answer, "Jackie Robinson moved a rock and everyone has been following in his footsteps ever after."

Good answer. I asked other friends. I asked Father Ned, who answered, "We are co-creators in this universe, move the rock." That turned out to be my favorite answer. We are co-creators. And while it is up to each of us to make our own way, It sure helps to have friends and family to talk over the possibilities.


About which rocks can be moved and which we need to climb over.






A few weeks ago a teacher from TN wrote and asked me for the poem about the creek. Like the August poem, it is just a little piece of poem. Never fully developed. Just a little story, a memory to savor like the tongue-burst of backyard, sun-ripened tomatoes.

Outside of the box

All December we were boxed in -- by the weather and by deadlines. Three deadlines for me for books upcoming in 2010:

ZOMBIES! EVACUATE THE SCHOOL!
WEIRD? ME, TOO. CAN WE BE FRIENDS?
HIGH DEFINITION: VIGOROUS VOCABULARY INSTRUCTION

But now we are breaking out of the box! On our way to Morocco and then on to Abu Dhabi. So exciting. Waiting to be cleared at JFK for our flight directly to Casablanca. Exotic just to say. Happy to have passed the weather so far -- and now ready to face the long security lines. On our way.

Whenever we leave to take our walks abroad, anxiety over details and the unfamiliar seesaw with excitement in the anticipation of all the opportunities. Traveling outside of the comfort zone is what keeps us growing. Like Danny in this photo from the Smithsonian, we need to trust.



And then dive in like Sara in the sea of new colors.



It helps to try and see into the future like Thomas, even knowing that is not entirely possible.



We are making calculations about the unknown, reaching out for the fantastical like Scotty.



All of this is a heavy lift, as illustrated by Ben in a recent snowstorm in VA.



Those we love are what tie us to that comfort place called home. We see it in the faces of families at the airport saying goodbye, standing close right up to the metal detectors and conveyor belts.

People invariably ask: Are you scared to go to these places? And the quick answer is, of course not. Driving around deadman’s curve in a snowstorm in Cleveland, falling on icy steps, eating McDonald’s in a pinch: those things are scary. But traveling? No. But giving due respect to total honesty there is always one moment, slight as the gasp between sight and recognition that is shiverous. I’m not even sure that shiverous is a word, making it a perfect choice to describe a fear I’m not sure is even there.

Concerns swirl around being so far from all we love, but the call of adventure, new friends and new experiences is strong. It takes a loving ground crew to enable us to travel, Katie, Kelly, Claudia, George, Becky, Amy – all pitching in. And Max and Frank, of course. Not to mention all of our friends on the other side, who have offered advice, work, don’t forgets, and cautions. So, off we go on Air Morocco with excitement and gratitude. Now if the weather only holds . . .

In search of Peace

If we're going to the beach, you have to put on shoes.

I don't want to wear shoes.
Here let me help you.
I can't find my shoes.
Here's one.
I don't want to wear those shoes.
These are fine.
I want my other shoes.
Start with putting on socks.
I don't want socks.
You need socks and shoes. It's November.
Where's my purse?
You don't need a purse.
Scotty has a purse.
That's a pouch for collecting things.
I want a pouch.
I gave you a pouch, where is it?
Sara took my pouch!
There. Everyone has shoes, socks and a pouch. Into the car.
Me! Me!
Everybody.
Scotty won't let me shut the door.
Sara is trying to shut my foot in the door.
Everyone in the car and buckle up.
I don't want to buckle up.

A trip to the beach with an almost 3 year old and a six-year-old is not necessarily a trip to the beach in the idiosycrinatic sense of the phrase. The fighting continued for the seven miles to the Mentor Headlands parking lot. As I turned off the engine, a continuation of complaints.
Can I leave my shoes in the car?
Can I leave my fleece in the car?
I'm hungry.
Where's the water?
We never went this way before.
Can we go swimming.
NNNNOOOOO!

As we entered the opening of trees and took the path through the dunes, winding our way another half mile to the shore, gradually we began to hear the calming whispers of waves. Lake Erie was Sunday morning lazy, barely breathing. November 8. The shoes immediately came off, along with the socks and the fleeces. Pouches were filled with special rocks and beach glass. Scotty is an experienced beach comber and selectively collected smoothed glass. Sara took the three-year-old approach, scooped up a handful of rocks, filled the pouch in one scoop, and skipped away to walk logs like tight ropes and make sand angels.

It's been a crazy-busy couple of weeks. Rewarding. Tiring. Two days at Pierce Middle school in Milton, Mass and a warm and walking weekend with Christine and Larry Charbeneau.



We celebrated literacy and rich food, explored Boston's historical highlights. Christine's seventh graders dove into writing definition infomercials with the gusto of seasoned pitch people and the families were so fun to talk to on literacy night. I love a two day visit as there is time to really connect with folks.

Then we flew back to Cleveland, got in the car and immediately drove to a two day visit in Mason, OH. Mason is next to Montgomery, OH where I remember working at a GE plant typing freight tags the summer of 1971. The area was a cornfield back then. No more. The land has sprouted into neighborhoods and the MS/HS campus looks like a community college. Michael and I did three assemblies for the 7-8th graders, 600 kids at each show. They were very well prepped (thank you Jenny May) and enthusiastic about reading and writing poetry.



Saturday was the Buckeye Book Fair, seven full hours of signing and chatting and then I dropped Michael off at the airport for a gig in Chicago and picked up Scotty and Sara for a sleepover, all three of us in one bed.

The sound of waves smooths the spirit just like the lapping lake smooths glass shards. Setting aside the environmental anxiety over sixty-five degrees in Cleveland on the 8th of November, Scott, Sara and I walked, inhaled, and tossed rocks -- filling ourselves with peace. The achievable kind of peace. The peace you can hold in your belly.



Smiles all around.