One-Inch Bubbles

Dawn.

"You loved my text messages from last night."

"Um. Actually, I didn't know what was happening.
I had to go back and read the bubble I sent you.
All I asked you was whether or not you walked
after school, and then I got five one-inch bubbles."

"I know. I was really tired and sensitive."

"I know. That's why I just said, "Okay" and "Sorry."
But you were also writing so fast. I couldn't
respond, even if I wanted to."

Departures and Returns

Sometimes,

I think

that my choices

are exclusively my own. 

I think,

that I can live

my life

based solely,

on my heart’s desires,

without any consideration,

of context,

or community,

or relationships,

or history,

or commitments,

or partnerships,

or promises. 

So, I follow these paths,

accept invitations,

dare to go into unchartered

territory,

while the life THAT I DO HAVE,

waits for me. 

And it waits,

expectantly,

confidently,

hopefully,

with certainty,

for me to see,

that all I need,

is what I have,

right here, right now. 
What I wake up to everyday,

is more,

than my casual mind

can appreciate.

My own environment,

my ancestors, my family, my friends,

my communities, the universe, la raza

protect me,

by closing doors,

rejecting my applications,

or I am given ears to listen,

and advice to rethink,

and glimpses

of the fortune

that I am swimming in,

but take for granted.

In retrospect, I see,

that many things,

are from and for

another time,

(son de, y para, otros tiempos)

not this time,

and I make my peace,

at each disappointing,

sometimes heartbreaking,

development.

That so many possibilities,

surround me,

and so many opportunities

dance with me,

and so many experiences

seduce me,

is a beautiful thing.

I don’t regret the sea

of possibility in front of me.

I am thankful,

for the bounty.

I am thankful,

for the world showing me,

the benefits,

of all of my hard work,

and sincere, earnest living,

welcoming me,

into glimpses of what could be.

And then always, always, always,

returning me,

to the web,

that is called,

my life and this time. 

Inside the Schoolhouse: Hallowed Ground #3

I am with my kindergarteners

for 6 hours a day. 

Most of them have been on this planet,

for about 60 months. 

I am sensitive

to the transition,

from daycare, or home, or preschool,

small class size, low student to teacher ratio,

shorter days,

more self-directed activities,

to being in kindergarten.

To being in a room,

where 70% of the room,

is occupied by desks and chairs.

This is where they spend,

95% of their time. 

And during that 95%,

they are listening to me,

working at their desk,

following directions,

probably daydreaming,

trying to listen,

doing their best,

to learn how to hold a pencil,

shape their letters between the lines,

remember all there is to remember,

about what to do with the book in

their hands,

or the paper in front of them,

or the math story I just asked them to solve. 

They are earnest,

defying their wild and curious nature,

and being loyal,

to me and my teaching,

and they are doing their best,

to grow up,

at five years-old.

But today,

they weren’t having it. 

I could not get them to settle down,

so I said,

“Alright, we’re going out to play.”

We went down to the yard.

Towering trees bordering the playground,

chaparral hillside in the background,

soft Los Angeles, January breeze

carrying the monarch that was fluttering

around us. 

The children were unleashed,

on the concrete pavement. 

Suddenly, they were puppies and kitties,

crawling on all fours, pretending to purr and cuddle.

The boys became ninjas, wielding imaginary

swords, jumping at each other,

and crouching like tigers.

The tether ball game,

whose rules they don’t know,

was a gathering place,

for swinging the ball,

and ten kids falling over each other,

to try and catch it. 

Two girls were telling a secret,

in the shade of the pepper tree,

while a group of boys and girls,

were teasing each other and squealing,

in that old-fashioned game of tag. 

Others were hiding from zombies,

while a line of girls were calling out like sheep,

to a few girls on the other side of the yard,

and with some invisible cue,

they all started to run,

at the same time,

in different directions,

screaming from the top of their lungs. 

I don’t disparage, the mostly academic work,

that I dedicate my life to everyday.

I am a mother, of children who attend public school,

with the same curriculum and the same limited physical play,

that makes up my own students’ day.  

I am not interested in paying some inordinate amount of money,

for my kids to spend most of their day playing,

instead of doing academic work. 

I am interested in public policy that honors

children’s need to play and imagine. 

But I’m honestly not working on that.

So I’ll just mind my own,

public school teacher business. 

Sometimes, when I’m encouraging my students

to engage and pay attention,

I tell them that home, is where they can be wild,

and themselves, and do all of their shenanigans.

School is where they need to collect themselves,

pull themselves together, and control themselves.

But this afternoon,

with the warm winter sun shining on us,

and with our laughter and joy,

riding on the wind,

I couldn’t help but think,

that I’d like to say to them,

“School is where you can be wild,

and yourself, and we welcome,

all of your shenanigans.”

Let the children play…

Dejen que jueguen los niños...

Chicana Manifesto - Part I

The term “Chicana” saved my life.  The child of an immigrant, Mexicana, who was a single mother, I grew up in Los Angeles, in severe poverty, marinating in gang violence, surrounded by people who were abusing substances, and suffering from severe emotional and physical neglect.  When my mother, who I adore and who passed away when I was twenty years old, was intoxicated, she would scream, crouched in the corner of our Silverlake apartment, “Soy 100% Azteca!” I didn’t know who the Aztecs were, and I didn’t want anything to do with anything, that made my mother holler its name, when she was drunk. 

In middle school, my brother was incarcerated, my mother was at her worst in her drinking, we were evicted from our Silverlake apartment and neighborhood, which I had known my whole life, and we moved to South Los Angeles.  When I enrolled in Mt. Vernon Jr. High, I had to think quickly about how I was going to navigate the black and brown sea that was before me.  Never having considered my cultural or linguistic background, and therefore feeling no allegiance to the Latinos, and figuring that the Black kids were way stronger than the brown kids, I ditched the Latinos and joined the Black crowd.  I changed my name to “Angel”, attempted to talk like the Black kids, and I declared that I was Spanish and Black.  I don’t know how my peers bought that I was half-Black, and they didn't at all consider the improbability of my ghetto ass being a Spaniard, I was quickly accepted into their circle. 

The years that followed, my emotional life became more and more precarious.  Homelessness, alcoholism, hunger, and a complete deterioration of my home life, made me incredibly depressed and more than anything, it made me feel, nameless.  I was a nobody. All I had were my best friends from Hollywood High School, and everything else meant nothing. 

My older brother enrolled at Los Angeles Community College and he took a Chicano studies course.  I will say, that in the midst of the madness of my personal life, I WAS a reader.  I read everything that I could get my hands on, that helped me create meaning in life.  I eventually transferred to Marshall High School, for getting in a fight at Hollywood High, and I would ditch my classes at Marshall so that I could read in the school library.  Spraying perfume on the carbon copy of an old library pass, every day, I’d rewrite a new date on the pass, and skip a class to just go and sit in the library and read.  When my brother brought home his Chicano Studies books, I had no problem devouring the books.  Learning about the Aztecs, the pyramids in Mexico and the great civilizations, made me feel that I had something to be proud of.  Reading about the Chicano movement and the East LA blowouts connected the rage that I held so deep inside from all of my childhood experiences, to something palpable that I could direct my anger toward. I adopted social justice as my motto, and my work around issues of social justice is history.  From the moment that I laid my hands on those books, I became somebody.  I was, a Chicana. 

To be continued...

Sunday Morning

There once was a Chicana,
who was convinced by the Millers, 
to make coffee in a french press, 
of which she did, and became obsessed. 

She poured her coffee, 
into her Moomin cups, 
the national icon she learned about, 
when she joined a delegation of teachers, 
to Helsinki, Finland, 
to meet with key officials 
in the Ministry of Education, 
and tour schools, 
to interview teachers and students. 

She takes her coffee, 
to her desk, 
where she writes an email, 
to the parents of a student, 
in her classroom, 
to tell them how much their 
child has improved, 
and where she thinks the next steps are, 
in their efforts to support the student.  

It is just an ordinary Sunday morning, 
in Northeast Los Angeles, 
in the home, 
of a Chicana poet, 
who is a public school teacher. 

Inside the Schoolhouse: Hallowed Ground #2

I am often asked, as a

public school teacher,

what I think about testing,

or the common core.

I would like to say,

“Who cares,”

but I usually answer,

in less than five minutes.

I would,

a million times

rather

be asked,

what I think about

teaching and learning.  

For example,

instead of asking me

what I think about testing,

or the common core,

I’d love someone to ask,

So, what are kids reading these days?

            (that would imply you assume that they have a reading life)

What are her favorite books?

            (that would imply that you hope that they are

     readers with preferences. Always a sign of a 

     healthy reading life)

When does she read and where,

and for how long?

            (because you understand that this gives insight into whether or

             not they’ve developed a love for reading)

or

How’s your classroom library going?

Do you have enough books?

What do you need more of?

Are there enough leveled, high-interest books

for your kids to book shop?

            (because if there is not a robust classroom library, that serves

             multiple instructional purposes,  you know we should be concerned)

How many times did you read aloud today?

So where are they at in decoding?

Letter-sound, blending or reading words?

What poems and songs have you

read together?

Which poems make them laugh,

or remind them of their life,

or make them wonder about the world?

            (Because you hope that through my modeling of reading,

             thinking about my reactions to my reading, and sharing the secrets

             of a reader’s life with my students, they will copy me, and take

             ownership of their learning)

Where are they at, developmentally in making

text to self, text to text or text to world connections?

What in their life is supporting their reading development,

and where can we lift their reading habits and strategies?

            (Because even though you are a lay person, and not an

            educator, someone told you that reading comprehension is

            not torturing children with passages to read and then giving

    them multiple-choice questions,  but it is reading the world,

    so that they may find their place in it)

What do you need as a teacher of reading,

so that next week,

we will bring the most passionate, knowledgeable,

most prepared, and effective presenter

to further your understanding?

            (Because ideally, as in any profession, you are making

            sure, that I have what I need, to develop my knowledge

            about the teaching of reading. And the public is ensuring

            that teachers have quality opportunities to do this. We’re

            teaching the future of our country for goodness sake!)

Instead of the institution

asking

valuable questions about

teaching and learning,

or using our faculty meetings,

to support teacher-centered

inquiry and instructional planning,

I am routinely given,

a sheet,

with test dates,

and a packet,

of test materials,

and instructions on how to give the test.

And the public,

only knows to ask,

what do I think about

testing and the common core.