A Valentine's Day Story

Okay, his name was not Jim, but other than that, the following poem is a true story.  Hard to imagine any boy wouldn't have gone for those bangs and too young for braces buck teeth. I wore extra petticoats because I wanted hips like Annette Funicello, but instead I was shaped more like Pinocchio.  The only thing missing in this picture are the black cats' eye glasses that I needed to see the blackboard at school.  Irresistible. 

So, in the old days kids didn't have to bring valentines to the entire class.  It was possible for one girl (Bernadette Sehi) to get 35 valentines and the girl sitting next to her (B.O.Ploe) to get none. It was a day filled with high anxiety and kids consoling themselves by overdosing on little candy hearts. I suppose I was kind in the middle in the whole "who got the most valentines" contest. I don't remember, really.  But I remember a boy who was not named Jim who crumpled my valentine in his pocket and laughed with his friends (at me?).  It wasn't the worst thing that ever happened to me, and you'll be glad to know, I did not injure myself or others despite the murderous, vengeful thoughts going through my head at the moment I tried to capture in the poem. But 50 years later, I still remember.

On Valentine's Day, be nice.

VALENTINE

I gave Jim a valentine.

He stuffed it in his shirt,

then stood there in the hallway

with his jerko friends and smirked.

I must be dumber than a doorknob,

but I thought I'd take a chance.

Now, my foot is itching in my shoe,

it wants to kick his pants.

My hands are searching

for a hiding place.

They want to choke his throat.

He thinks that I'm some joke.

One day I hope he feels

what burned is all about,

and he will learn too late

that love's too fine to be crumped out.

©1996 sara holbrook ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Backwards Day All Year Long

Dan Ferri

Some poems visit you at sunset. Some haunt you in the wee hours with Jabberwocky logic because, let's face it, anything seems logical at 3AM.  There are poems you reach for when a friend dies, when a marriage implodes, when gratitude washes away pain.

Dan Ferri's poem, Backwards Day, follows me down school hallways behind 7th graders hiding their faces in hoodies. It stands with me as I watch the kid who can't hold a pencil and whose school won't let him use a keyboard try to make a joke out of it. It sits on my knee in a kindergarten class while everyone else is sitting on the carpet.  This poem is for those who would rather cartwheel than walk, draw instead of formulate equations, those who write, know how to harmonize, and problem solve.

Holidays, snow days, and low grade fevers should never happen on the weekend.  This Saturday is Backwards day, and because of that, I was afraid it would be overlooked this year.  

You know what this list is?  It's a list of what proficiency tests do NOT measure.  I found it in a book by Gerald Bracey, On the Death of Childhood and the Destruction of Public Schools (Heinemann 2003, in case you are looking for some light reading).  

As we head into testing season (I know this because of schools that call asking for a visit "after the tests") I'm thinking maybe Backwards Day shouldn't be only an annual event like the 100th day of school or Dr. Seuss' birthday, but a holiday that we celebrate all year long.

Dan is a seasoned middle school teacher transplanted from Chicago to Canberra, Australia, and as such he knows schools, holidays, and isn't afraid to call out puppypoop when he sees it.  Reprinted here with permission. 

Backwards Day

Sometimes at school we have a special day

We call it backwards day

Everyone wears their clothes backwards

Or wears colors that clash

I have a modest proposal

Forget your silly backwards hats and tee shirts

Forget this stripes and checks together puppypoop

Let's get serious

Let's really shake school up

In math class, for homework

Describe the associative, distributive, and

Commutative properties

In dance

Choreograph it, dance it, show your work

Points off for clumsiness

In Social Studies, for homework

Prepare two Civil War marching songs, one North one South

Sing in four-part harmony, show your emotion

Points off for flat notes

In English, for homework

Carve a sculpture that expresses Hester Prynne's solitary courage

The cowardice of her lover

The beauty and strangeness of her child

In Science, for homework,

Bring in a broken toaster, doorknob, or wind-up toy

Fix it

You get extra credit for using the leftover parts to make something new

Points off for reading the directions

On the S.A.T.

Every one of the questions

Will be in haiku

You get two scores

One in whistling, and one in Legos

No calculators

Let's take a stroll down the hall

Let's see who is in the learning disabilities classroom now

Will you look at all those guys with pocket protectors

Sweating, slouching, and acting out

  

Hey, no one cares that you can divide fractions backwards in

your head buddy

You will stay right here and practice interpretive dance steps till

you get it right

Will you look at all those perfect spellers with bad attitudes

Look at those grammar wizards with rhythm deficit disorder

What good is spelling gonna do you

If you can't carry a tune

Toss a lariat

Or juggle?

You are going to stay right here and do the things that you can't

Over and over, and again, and again

Until you get them right,

Or until you give up

Quit school

And get a job

As a spell checker

At the A&P

~Daniel Ferri

Taking it to the Next Level

A wise philosopher (Cher?) once said that “everyday’s a new audition.”  That’s a lot of pressure!

And no time is that more evident than January 1, when we resolve something or other starting with the new year. 

In the writing and the reading, poetry gives me pause. To others I may appear motionless, but the truth is, I'm just tuning my voice.

Watch out, 2015.

From the Park Bench (it's coming!)

“When we reject the single story, when we realize that there is never a single story about any place, we regain a kind of paradise.”

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

OMG, it's coming.

The publisher (Red Giant Press) said the hard copy proof is in the mail.

This manuscript has stretched and grown over 20 years.  From my time as Public Information Officer at the Cuyahoga Metropolitan Housing Authority through an uncountable number of school visits and conversations with folks, I have taken a lot of notes.  A whole lot of notes. 

There is never just one side to any story, there are always at least two and usually many more.  A fact we have seen playing out on our televisions over these past months (and years).   I don't pretend to have answers to the misunderstandings, I have just listened to the stories.

So has evolved these short poetic dialogues, two voices looking at the same subject from diverse viewpoints.   Democracy, politicking, mother instinct, privatization, welfare, and getting schooled are among the topics.  

For those who read my children's books, I thank you heartily, but advise that this is not the book for you.  This is a book for adults, and hopefully high school students.

For those who have heard my adult poetry, you will hear a familiar line here and there.  I have not borrowed from those poems, rather those poems borrowed from this manuscript, the mother-ship, that has been festering on my hard drive for years, gnawing at me.  As I recently observed to an audience at YALSA, you don't have to be crazy to write poetry, but it does help if you hear voices.

I have never been so excited to go looking for typos.