Democracy Democracy: Toilet Paper and Mud Wrestling

This is kind of a cool thing for a poet; the word “democracy” is trending on my blog stats.  I rarely look at these things, but last week with a little too much time on my hands, I clicked on “keyword activity” on my blog stats and up popped the the D word.  So on the day President Obama will make his annual State of the Union address, let me address the word democracy.

It wasn’t just my (relentless) absent-mindedness that lead me to title two of my poems Democracy.  It was like going shopping with a friend where you both fall in love with the same dress, both purchase it, and promise to never wear the matchy matchy frocks to the same party.  It helps to seal this bargain if you live in different cities, states or countries. 

I wrote the following two poems 10 years apart and honestly thought they would never wind up in the universe, let alone the same classrooms.  But this is the age of the Internet and geez-o-man, a poet can’t get away with anything these days.

First let me say, I am a big proponent of democracy.  Unlike the review of the following poem that I read on some online forum, I do NOT believe that democracy means stealing toilet paper.  (Oh how I hope that was just a discussion starter).  Rather, I think it means that, despite our differences, we have the ability to get together as a community and see how we can make toilet paper available to all instead of a small minority hoarding all the toilet paper for themselves.  Toilet paper is a double ply metaphor in the US with its two ruling parties.

Originally performed at the 1996 National Poetry Slam, this poem was first published in Chicks Up Front (Cleveland State University Press).  I wrote this poem reflecting on my time as the Public Information Officer at the Cuyahoga Metropolitan Housing Authority.  Let me tell you, people in that organization deserve purple hearts for how they get beat up on a daily basis just trying to make democracy work.  Of course, as in any profession, a few of the executives, workers, and residents become crooks, stealing what they can for themselves, hang the needs of others.  But most are wearily trying to divide a miniature cupcake 57 different ways.

Democracy (1)

My office is government issue.

The basics, one metal desk, one chair,

a stack of folders,

four rubber stamps and loose paper in need of baling wire, or a match...

A gray office beside a multicolored room full of folks waiting on

government basics.

Thump.

Thump.

A large woman thumps, thumps. 

Thumps past my office.

Thump. Thump,

down the hall to the ladies room.

Sounds of water running followed by

the swing of the squeaky door,

it slaps against the wall

oozing toward a bumpy close.

Thump.  Thump.

I look up as she passes again.

Dark hallway.

Dark clothing.

Dark hands.

White toilet paper.

Thump. Thump.

I watch after her passing.

Thump. Thump.

She stole the toilet paper.

Also government issue,

two rolls per day.

Issued by

the same government that

murders mountains of forests for the

confusion of paper it takes to

purchase a pencil through

proper procurement procedures.

The same government that

offers tax abated housing to

for profit football teams and

levies income tax on where's-the-profit

unemployment compensation.

The same government that

issues food stamps for

koolaid, popsicles and tater tots

but not for toilet paper,

like it's some privilege

that poor folks don't need.

That same government issues us

two rolls per day,

93% of the days since our last 7% cut.

Two rolls.

I rub at the crow's feet which are deepening into my mother's face

and listen to her leaving.

She stole the toilet paper.

The clock silently mouths

that it's just 3:05.

I wait for a moment, reluctant to go

once more against the mountain,

knowing the thin air

makes me lightheaded.

Finally I move.

"Ma'am, did you take our toilet paper?"

She looks straight ahead,

the two rolls propped on knees flung wide.

She is slow to acknowledge my presence,

slow looking up at the self-conscious stand

I have taken beside her over-filled chair.

In a glance

she reminds me that I am too tall,

too thin, too well-dressed,

and too goddamned white.

"I need it," she replies.

And that need, I know,

is not entirely selfish,

that need embraces the needs

of her children,

her grandchildren,

maybe a neighbor.

But it does not embrace the needs

of her neighbors with whom

she shares this waiting room.

"I have to ask for it back," I say,

citing the needs of the others.

Reluctant herself,

she complies.

Practically speaking,

she is a republican.

I retreat to return the basics

to the necessary place,

dizzy with

democracy.

©1995 Sara Holbrook, Chicks Up Front (Cleveland State University Press)

This next poem I wrote to introduce a chapter on writing poetry in social studies class in my first professional book for teachers.  It has since appeared in a couple of anthologies, and my newest book High Impact Writing Clinics (Corwin, 2013), which also contains, among its 600 power point slides, one devoted to this poem along with a recording of me reading it.

Democracy (2)                      

Not a flagpole, pointing heavenward

with shining surety.

Not

any one set of colors

jerked cleanly up and down.

Not golden crusted apple pie.

Not

a grey pin-striped uniform.

Not

anybody’s mom.

            No.

If there is a metaphor

for democracy

it is a mud wrestling match,

grit in the eyes

feet a flying—

your ear in my teeth.

And the future?

The future belongs the muckers

still willing to get their hands

dirty,

who roll up their sleeves

to show their colors.

©2005 Sara Holbrook, Practical Poetry (Heinemann)

So, what do I really think about democracy?

Democracy is constantly evolving.  Stay tuned.

Finding Voice in Writing: A Dialogue

“If you come to my country, you got to understand my language if you want to communicate.” By his own estimation, the man spoke three languages: the projects,housing authority executive, and Citibank.

Ronnie Davis was my boss at the Cuyahoga Metropolitan Housing Authority (CMHA), he the Chief Operating Officer and me the Public Information Officer. He had grown up one of eight children mothered by a single female head of household in the projects in New Orleans and gone on to get an advanced degree in urban planning from Harvard.  Not sure what the odds are against an African American kid doing this, but I think he might have had a better chance becoming a quarterback in the NFL. The phrase “long shot,” doesn't go the distance to describe his life’s trajectory.

I was getting schooled in his office, sitting there in my little navy blue suit and gold button earrings, hands folded on my leather planner having just moved from doing PR at a prestigious international law firm to CMHA.  He explained that the reason my co-workers didn't like me (they didn't) was that I only had one language.  I communicated just fine to the media and the outside world, and he appreciated that, but I wasn't able to communicate with people in the hallway.  My worst offense was that I flinched when I heard what I had always understood to be “bad” language.

Writing lessons don’t always come via a seminar or a workshop. They come from reading and listening to people talk. As Anne Lamott says in Bird by Bird, (paraphrase alert) most of life is like static on the radio, you have to stop and adjust the dial to get the message. Luckily that day I was tuned in because Ronnie was giving me a valuable lesson in voice. Ronnie was a good communicator.  He never sounded like he was putting on an affect or an accent. Call it code-switching or linguistic gymnastics; Ronnie had developed a flexibility in speech that was both effective and genuine.

He taught me that finding an authentic voice is output from a centrifuge of author and audience.  When I hear teachers lament that their students struggle with finding authentic voice in writing, I often flash back to me in that navy blue suit, sitting obediently in a chair, trying so hard to do the right thing.  My problem was, due to the lack of diversity in my upbringing, an unrequited desire to be teacher’s pet, and my dear mother, captain of the grammar police, I had grown to believe I had only one right voice. I knew how to speak (in my mind) properly.  But was my idea of “proper” always effective; did it fit the venue?  Worse, was it blocking my ability to listen?

At the time, none of my poetry had been published, but I had been spending evenings and weekends secretly playing around with different voices in my poems.  Here writing as a second grader, there as an adolescent, I was scrolling back the years and finding the voices I had mostly stuffed as a child, the voices that had been strangled by my self-conscious fear of saying the wrong thing.  Most recently, I had spent eight years writing for lawyers whose narrow-eyed stares had beaten even the contractions out of me.  I was in a sad state.

Turns out that poetry is the best place to practice this voice thing since poems are naturally first person narratives. And you get to choose your own point of view. And, they are short! Which means you can practice the same text or writing on the same topic in different voices without attempting Moby Dick.

The following two poems are about love (yeah, yeah, poets always write about love), but they are in different voices.  In order to write the poems, I had to assume the age of the speaker of the poem, sure.  Try it on.  But also, in the case of both poems, I had a particular audience in mind, and I did my best to speak in their language.

FAST MOVES

Cooties.

Gobbers.

Stinko.

Dread.

Alison got kissed by Fred.

He caught her squarely on the lips,

puckered up and let 'er rip.

Then, Fred‑the‑Lip?

He strut and bragged.

And Alison?

She spat and gagged.

Fred's a rookie,

didn't ask for permission.

Should have known that in kissing,

you play your position.

If he tries it again,

he may get a new twist

from the school's brand new nickname . . .

Alison‑the‑fist.

©1996 sara holbrook, The Dog Ate My Homework, Boyds Mills Press

LIKE A FEATHER LIFTING

Like a feather lifts, floating on a breeze,

a pillow rolled behind my neck just right.

Window cracked, a rustling of trees,

I spread my wings to dream of you tonight.

A barely moon set in a starless sky

where we can drift together, then apart.

Imagining the dance, I close my eyes

and tuck beneath your shoulder, ear to heart.

Although I know you’re really blocks away,

inhaling, I can smell you next to me.

I dream about your smile, then press replay,

what was, what is, and what is yet to be.

Our story takes so long to comprehend,

I fall asleep before I reach the end.

©2010 sara holbrook, More Than Friends, Boyds Mills Press

Link to video

Developing voice in our writing isn't something we do once.  It isn't even something we do over and over with the goal of finding that ideal voice.  It is being able to find the right voice for a specific occasion, a particular audience.  In a way, all writing is dialog. 

So, how did Ronnie’s language lesson go?  Well, first he made me put my ego in an empty Ball jar he kept on his desk.  (Note: this lesson has been modified to fit the potential audience for this blog).

Ronnie: Say mother-socker.

Sara: Blush.

Ronnie: Say mother-socker.

Sara whispers back: Mother-socker.

Ronnie: Louder, slower.  Mou-ther-sock-er.  Mou-ther-sock-er.

He made me say mother-socker about 26 times until I could say it without flinching, not even an eyebrow twitch.  He told me, if I wanted to work in the projects, I had to be able to hear what people were saying even if they were speaking a language different than the one I was used to. 

He was teaching me how to listen. 

And then he told me I should lose the leather notebook, get a yellow pad, and get out of his office.  He didn't have anything to say about the navy blue suit.

The fact is, most of us come to writing wrapped in a suit of our upbringing and along the route we begin to shed those restraints, experimenting with diversity of expression. I have never really adopted that particular compound word as part of my regular vocabulary (well, that one time, with the airlines), but I no longer let it keep me from listening. Listening leads to understanding and feeds my writing, enriching it with quirks and intonation.

When we write, we want to be understood. Learning how to listen helps me as a writer to find a voice, a language that my intended audience will not only understand, but truly believe.

Do I succeed all the time?  No way.  I am still learning.  And some voices I would never even attempt.  For instance, I have never composed a rap.  Middle-aged, white lady rap.  Think about it.  We all have our limitations.  And I am still searching for the right voice to make myself heard to airline representatives. Swearing (see above) does not help one bit in making myself understood. 

Lessons learned.

Finding voice.  It’s a life-long pursuit. 

Advice?

First, find yourself an empty Ball jar.

Or, git you a Ball jar.

Or, Hey you! Ball jar. Ego. There.

Your choice.

  

Pout

There is not much to say about this poem... except it is a good poem to try on.
Cross your arms, stick out your boo-boo lip and go for it.

I Used to Be, But Now I Am: Repurposed

Did you used to wear diapers?  Was there a time when examining your feet was more fascinating than watching the NFL? Are you a former stair surfer and who had the carpet burns on your chin to prove it? 

Then grab a pencil or personal device, you have the research in you and you are poised to write. In High Impact Writing Clinics (HIWC), Michael Salinger and I decided to resurrect and repurpose “I used to be, but now I am,” a famous writing exercise that (to the best of my knowledge) was first put forward by Kenneth Koch in his seminal book on writing, Wishes, Lies, and Dreams, originally published in 1970.

Kids love doing these quick writes.  You can call them poetry, story starters, or just plain fun – fun to write, share and illustrate. This writing exercise has been a staple in writing classrooms for over 50 years.

One of the saddest outcomes (one of many) of the No Child Left Behind Act along with their accompanying curriculum driving tests, is that for many kids, particularly those labeled as lagging in literacy and math skills, they never or rarely got/get lessons in social studies and civics.  How is it that history dropped to the cutting room floor?  Easy.  What wasn't on the test wasn't in the curriculum.  

I remember one time heading out to a portable classroom in Florida to do a writing workshop with (I think) fifth graders.  "What are they studying in science and social studies?" I asked, thinking since it was a self-contained classroom, we would use their common studies as something to write poetry about.  "Oh, these kids don't get science or social studies," I was told. (insert look of stunned disbelief) "Well, they can't pass the tests in reading and math, so they get reading in the morning and math in the afternoon." It was shocking the first time, but it just became discouragingly familiar as I realized it was a national trend. Arugh.

Trend-buckers that we are, Michael and I are all about writing across kids' lives and their learning. What we like to do with this writing exercise is to first have kids write about their own personal experience.  Sometimes the writing is poignant, often hilarious.  I used to sleep on airplanes, now I throw up in the aisles.  I used to have no teeth, then I had teeth, now I have no teeth again. We have fun looking at ourselves and how we have evolved.

But then we like to grow this exercise, add a little research, and expand our horizons focusing on a changing world.  What was life like for workers before there were unions? How was life for women before they could vote or own property? What was travel like before the steam engine was invented?  Through independent research, students can use their personal reflections as mentor text to build their own comparisons and a deeper understanding of history.

The gun manufacturers have done a bang up job (sorry, couldn't resist) of making sure everyone knows what the second amendment is all about, but what was life like for folks when they didn't have the protection of the 8^th amendment?  Fuzzy on that one yourself?  No cruel and unusual punishment, kids, which btw does not mean being grounded from your Xbox for a weekend nor does child labor mean when the parent says, “hey, grab a dishtowel and pitch in.”

This exercise also provides an opportunity for the writer to assume another’s point of view.  In HIWC, we take the point of view of the American Bison, using one citation for the first draft and multiple sources for subsequent versions.  Writing from another’s perspective helps to build not only understanding in the writer, but also empathy as we look at our changing world. 

“The consequences of an ignorant population who have no concept of history, the Constitution, social studies, and hard fought battles for basic human rights, are rearing their ugly heads in a myriad of ways in legislatures across the country. The decimation of history and social studies in schools, resulting from what isn't tested isn't taught, means Americans have no clue who or what they are voting for, if they even bother to vote at all.” In a recent blog, an anonymous teacher who calls herself “free to teach,” writes about the long term realities of test driven curricula that limit rather than expand student’s historical visions. The fact that this teacher seemingly feels the need to write anonymously itself is a bit frightening. But her observations go a long way to explain how the public can be so easily persuaded that "ignorance is strength," to quote George Orwell.

We are hoping that teachers use this writing clinic (one of 20) not only to help kids appreciate their own growth, but to look closely at the changes in the world around them.   

   

My Global Moment

#MyGlobalMoment from The Ubuntu Center on Vimeo.

“And you call yourself an educated man.”

I was having a buffet breakfast in 2006 with two Afghan teachers at a conference for Middle Eastern educators (TARA) in Bahrain.  The man was young, maybe thirty, the woman, Hamaira, more seasoned, with a married daughter of her own. She had told me of her marriage at the age of 11, how she was in the garden playing with dolls when her father came to fetch her to meet her new husband.  While they had grown close over the years, she was quick to distinguish her marriage from her daughter’s, which, with a slight straightening of the spine, she described as a “love marriage.” Her daughter lived in Atlanta, far removed from her but also from the fighting in Kabul. “It is good,” she said definitively.

Hamaira, who had endured refugee camps and had very little in the way of material belongings insisted on giving me her headscarf when we parted, an act of generosity that I could not refuse, but which hurt to accept.  Years later, it still smells of her perfume.

The young man had a permanent look of concern.  He thought the ideas being exchanged at the conference were all good ones, but, he tipped his head, unfortunately not much use to him as his students had neither desks nor pencils.  These were only a couple items on a long list of what had gone missing in Kabul as the result of war.  No electricity. No clean water. His grandmother had no legs as a result of an American land mine.

“And you are sitting here having breakfast with me?” I asked.

“You did not plant this bomb,” he said matter-of-factly, evidencing a maturity of reasoning not present at home where educated folks had actually debated the merits of calling French fries “freedom fries,” a few years prior -- a phrase still in use at that time (and still in use in some restaurants even today).  Americans know how to hold a grudge and spread it with ubiquitous contempt from border to border.

The conference had sponsored the attendance of these two teachers.  They were both classroom teachers and trainers of teachers in a school system in which many children go to school in 2 hour increments because of their work schedules.  Not the teachers’ work schedules, the kids’.  With so many of the men absent from families after decades of war, basic provisions were a joint effort. As we sat trading stories, the young man said something that made Hamaira flare. “Ah, you say these things, and yet when you ask your wife to bring you a glass of water, you do not look her in the eye or speak her name. You wave your hand and say, water.  And you call yourself an educated man,” she sniffed.

“What do you expect?” The young man replied with a shrug. “I live in my father’s house.”

Changing the hearts and minds of people with such deep traditions suddenly looked to me to be a foolish, misguided and painfully arrogant notion, dreamy, magical fiction, transient as freedom fries.

To some extent, we all live in our father’s house.  How we find common ground is never along path carved out by one party.

Do you have a Global Moment?  Post it here and read others: http://theubuntucenter.org/moment/

Dostyk American International School, Atyrau, Kazakhstan

“What were you doing in Kazakhstan?’ asks the customs agent in Newark.

“How much time do you have?” I want to answer, but these folks get paid to not know how to take a joke, so I just say, “Visiting.”

He stares me down. 

“Visiting a school.”

“Do you speak Russian?”

“No.” Neither do all Kazakhs, I’m thinking.  They have their own language.  But I don’t say that part.  It was a long trip; I don’t want to add any interrogation rooms to the legs of my journey.  “English language,” I say.

“What are you bringing back?”

The true answer involves memories, smiles, stunning lines of poetry, new friendships, hugs from old friends, new vistas, tacos, home made beer, a muddy market, laughter, and a slight head cold.  But this guy doesn’t want all that, so I just say, “a hat and some alpaca socks from Frankfurt.”

Thump.  Thump.  He stamps my passport and hands it across the counter.

“Welcome back.”

How do you sum up a weeklong trip to the other side of the planet in a single sentence?  Memories are crammed into the data bank like an over stuffed suitcase, hard to contain even if you sit on it.

My best attempt would be, “Spots of brilliance against an otherwise grey landscape.”  Favorite line came out of Cheryl Fullerton's pre-school class where one student said that "snow is water than looks like sugar."  Most laughable line came from the K-1 class where one writer was searching a word and pointed to my eye for me to help her.  "She's not being rude," explained her writing partner, "she just doesn't know the word."  The word was wrinkled.  

Salinger and I spent a week working with the 81 students at all grade levels at Doystk American International School in Atryau.  The skies may have been grey most days, but the kids were brilliant.  Writing poetry can be risky business, but the kids just jumped right in.  This tells me that they are in an atmosphere where they feel safe.

The kids had illustrated some of our poems before we arrived and are active writers, so were open to trying new approaches as they wrote and revised their way to a culminating performance for classmates and parents.

The first couple of days, I taught in borrowed clothes as our bags got hung up in Moscow and flights to Atyau only happen every two-three days.  

Luckily, they arrived before the evening reading we did for parents.  Lots of good snacks and warmth with the ever gusty winds whipping outside.  Once in a while it's good to share poems just for the sake of the words.  Not teaching, just sharing.  

This was the first time we could leave behind a copy of our new book with projectable lessons, High Impact Writing Clinics, with teachers for follow-up, which was exciting.  We never go into a school thinking we know the needs of the students better than their teachers.  What we hope is that we can add a few more lessons for teachers to draw upon as they help kids find their voices through writing.  Sometimes it just helps to have someone back up what the teachers have been saying all year -- draft, revise, be specific, use comparisons.  The normal stuff made more than normal if kids hear it from more than one place.

Atyrau, Kazakhstan is not a well known tourist destination.  But we had fun touring, one day taking a 5 mile walk.  This picture was taking on the bridge where you can cross from Asia to Europe and back again.  The hat is on loan from Konna, the face mask a souvenir of Vietnam.  

Thanks to Principal Raul Hinojosa and his favorite librarian, wife Patsy for the invitation.  Thanks to Konna and Peter Parker and their therapy husky Toshe for opening their home to us.  Special thanks to the parents who made us feel welcome with spectacular meals and conversation. 

To Brent, Cheryl, Lauren and Maxim Fullerton, how great to see you again! Thank you so much for recommending us.

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.