Remedy for Bitterness…

or, Recipe for Flourless Chocolate Cake

8 cold-as-ice eggs
2 sticks of bitter butter
1 pound of BITTERsweet chocolate
2 cups wishy-washy water

1. Beat the crap out of the eggs for five minutes until they are filled with twice the rage that they began with.
2. Boil the water until it’s as hot as hell
3. Stick the sticks in the chocolate and melt into darkened mush that is the color of (bull)shit.
4. Fold the eggs into the chocolate and stir away until not a single bubble of rage remains.
5. Pour the bitter batter into the springform pan wrapped in foil that will hold off the bubbling hot-as-hell water that you will submerge it in.
6. Bake at 325 for 45 minutes, or until you insert a toothpick until it reemerges without any bitterness.
7. Serve 12 small pieces in order to wash away all bitterness with ten bites, twelve friends, and a few good laughs.

Kids’ Pics Then and Now

Just like when I was a child, they’re obsessed
with examining pictures of themselves
and
there are only a few minuscule differences
between what they see and what I saw

I used to creep into the hall closet
and lug our wood- and cardboard-bound
construction-paper-filled albums
down from the shelf,
curl on the couch, knees crossed,
opening the pages so many times
that the punched holes holding them in place
began to tear by age nine,
the photo stickers began to peel off by eleven,
and as a teenager, the books
were almost too fragile to touch.

Now, in fifteen seconds,
I open up the laptop, command-click
five albums and then the black triangle,
choose a playlist that they all enjoy,
and watch as they, mesmerized,
view a three-seconds-per-pic slideshow
with dissolve, bubble, and fade—in effects
that I never could have imagined
when I was their age.

Just like when I was a child, they’re obsessed
with examining pictures of themselves
and
I think how much children are still the same
while the world around us is so strikingly different.

My Dearest Hyundai Accent

Dear Hyundai,

You have seen better days. Once you had only a small crack that stretched along the bottom of your windshield, never interfering with anyone’s view of the road. Now it has expanded, curving around the passenger’s side like a snake searching for its food, stopping just shy of the center so that the driver can still see.

Once you had a smooth exterior, your silver paint unmarred, your skeleton strong and resilient. Now my sister and I have beaten you, pushing a dent into your back right side, scratching the skin from your back bumper, pounding a tree that knocked off your front bumper which is now attached with plastic zip ties, and tearing your headlight off with an unfortunate scrape with the garage door, destroying both your interior lights and the garage door in the process.

When it’s dark in the morning and I must flip on the upper light in order to see how fast I’m driving or which way to adjust the thermostat, I can’t help but smile every time. You and I, we know where we’re headed, no matter how fast.

I steal glances at the odometer from time to time, and after nine and a half years with me, and two years with the person whose dust-cover over the dash has left permanent glue marks, you are just now close to 100,000 miles. I can’t tell you how proud that makes me.

You have seen better days. But in all these years, my Hyundai, my tiny compact car that with the right effort fits three little girls, car seats and all, in the back seat, you have taken me everywhere I’ve needed to go. And you have done so with no more than $700 in repair bills, no trumping of another car’s beauty, no less than thirty miles per gallon, and never a complaint from me.

Love,
Your Faithful Driver

Soul Searching

soul, where are you?
are you hidden inside the air of my lungs?
are you squeezing between my intestines?
are you burning through my veins,
following each blood cell to its capillary?
if I poke a needle deep enough into
my internal organs, my stomach, my liver,
will you escape and leave me lifeless?

or are you only in my mind,
somewhere embedded in a wrinkle
of cerebellum tissue,
whispering to the rest of me
that you are here, here, here,
that you will always be here,
in the darkness and the light,
the sorrow that follows the fight?

is it my heart where you hide?
beating your way out with each
strained pump of blood?
soul, I search for you sometimes
and cannot find where you have hidden yourself
though I know, somewhere within,
you will guide me, give me what I need,
and bring me to the fate that you have chosen for me.

Step Write Up

This year I run into writing
even when it brings me pain
because pain breeds good writing
even when it brings me criticism
because criticism makes me more determined
even when I’m too tired to write
because lack of sleep is inspirational
even when I feel it’s going nowhere
because it always goes to me
even when I hate what I put in words
because no words are ever wasted

This year I am stepping write up
and revising who I am.

Sunrise

I have seen you before
you are the one who has hidden
in the darkness before the dawn
the black so thick it blocks
you out of my wide-open eyes
my yearning for your explicit expression of truth
overcome by a sun that won’t shine

the bitterness sits
on my tongue like a cat on a fence
unable to determine
which way to pounce
because I am hungry for the truth
that you are too afraid to give me.

Instead you creep
as stealthily as the prey you think you are
hiding behind the curtain of obscurity
because you can’t bring your face to the face of
what’s real, what’s right here,
what we can all see
with the first streaks of a sunrise
that shines the same on all of us.

Furlough This!

You can’t put a price on what we do for kids
the price we pay with your most recent bids
even if you take another thing away
freeze salaries and three days without pay
you’ll never take away what we provide
to students who are never once denied
whatever you can spatter us with next
that leaves you looking lost and so perplexed
because the actual answer doesn’t lie
in a dollar amount yanked from the sky
each student’s, parent’s, or admin’s demands
lies here, within each teacher’s humble hands.

We are not drawn forth into this career
sans knowing sacrifice is always near.

If I Were Rich… Oh but I Am…

I opened my last jar of applesauce this morning. It may not seem like such an important event—I know what you’re thinking—you can go to Wal-mart and buy another jar for a dollar or less. But it wouldn’t be my homemade super-cinnamon sauce made from the organic Colorado-grown apples that I picked out ever so carefully from the Pearl Street farmers’ market. Grabbing a jar from the Wal-mart shelf will never bring to mind the beautiful bike ride through drifting autumn leaves, Riona in the trailer singing to her Barbie, a bike trail that eliminates all traffic and weaves its way through the city I love, and the arrival at the tented block that holds everything my heart desires. If I were rich, if I had all the money I ever wanted to spend, I would never buy a mansion or a Lamborghini—I think I just might spend it all, week after week, at the farmers’ market.

There you can buy almost everything you need. Fresh baked pies from the berries grown in the Wash Park community garden. Beef from eastern Colorado raised by ranchers who have replaced their corn with native prairie grasses, saving the earth, our health, and our economy with each delectable bite. Handcrafted soaps whose “factories” don’t require regulatory trips from the state environmental inspectors. In the spring, green onions, spinach and snow peas that crack when you snap them in half and can please any three-year-old who gets a taste handed to him from a basket in the arms of the farmer. In the summer, peaches and tomatoes that will fill in the absence of every meal and every remaining jar in the storage room. There will be peach cobbler, peach pie, peaches and ice cream, fresh peaches dripping juice down our chins. There will be tomato panini on fresh-baked homemade French bread, homemade sauce on homemade pizza, tomatoes to mix with the greens we bought today to make the salad that all the girls love.

And when the harvest really comes in, during the end-of-summer and early-fall months? We will stock up on winter squashes, filling our pantry with butternut and acorn and pumpkins that will make soups and stews and casseroles and pies that will fill our holiday tables with more than just warmth. They will complete a meal that would otherwise have forgotten its roots.

Any day of the market, you can buy Colorado wines, fresh-baked gourmet breads, hand-made pastas, even jewelry or candles. But what brings me there, what makes my heart yearn from week to week, is the crisp taste of the autumn air on my tongue that will soon linger with the crisp taste of a Swiss Gourmet, Jonathan, or Gala. I will eat them every day for months, I will cut them, chop them up in my processor, Riona will help pour the unmeasured insanity of cinnamon in, and we will remember the joys of this time, this life cycle of food, until the moment comes when the last jar is empty, and nothing can replace it but tears on my cheeks and a longing for fall.

Baker’s Dream

Dear melt-in-mouth,
decadent,
softly moist,
rich and heavy,
applause-inducing,
smiles for miles,
limitless thanks,
not-a-crumb-left,
beautiful, loving,
flourless cake:

thank you for making
everyone’s gloom
wash away for
ten delectable bites,
for leading to
jokes and comments
that will tingle my mind
for weeks to come,
and for giving us all
a taste of true happiness.

Love,
Baker’s Dream

Co-Teaching: Here’s What I REALLY Think

So this is MY problem with education right now, and no I’m not going to talk about the budget. I have been at my school for five years. For four and a half of them, I have been “co-teaching” in some form or fashion. What this means depends on who you ask, what model you are following, etc. The truth is, it doesn’t really work well unless both teachers buy into it, you have full administrative support, AND if you have common planning time, which has never been my situation. Maybe my problem really lies in the fact that I have always had my students in a class by themselves… they hate it because they are pulled from an elective, and I hate it because I don’t have much planning time at all and never get to actually meet with my co-teachers. But I have been too afraid to let it go because I have been afraid that I will never be able to develop a rapport with my students if the only time I see them is in the classes that I co-teach. Part of this is because of my two VERY different co-teaching experiences.

In two of my co-taught classes, I could easily be a special education paraprofessional. That’s pretty much how I feel most of the time. I sit in the back of the room watching the lesson and at times I might help my students with some of their work. Is this valuable to them? Is it an effective use of my time? It’s difficult to determine. In some ways it benefits them because at least I am more familiar with the day-to-day curriculum and can understand their assignments. Also, they are very often more comfortable asking me questions than the “regular” teacher. But then I ask myself, why is that? Is it because they know me better because of our small group classes? Again, I can’t answer that. All I can say is, I am a certified teacher, and I am sick of feeling like a damn tutor.

So, to put a brighter light upon the situation, I do share classrooms where I am treated as an equal. From day one, I am introduced to the students as the “ESL teacher”, yes, and I participate in the get-to-know-you activities, and from the first day, the other teachers and I tag-team the lessons. We may not plan together all the time, but we make more of an effort to plan together, and we become so familiar with each other’s teaching styles that we can switch off in the middle of a lesson with no notice. And when I ask myself, in these classes, is this valuable to my students? Is it an effective use of my time? The answer is always, always YES!! Not only do my students benefit, but because it is OUR class, I help other students besides just mine. They know me as well as the classroom teacher, and in the long run, they all benefit—they have twice as many teachers to help them learn the material and develop their thinking strategies and everything else that students need.

When I first suggested the idea of co-teaching years ago, saying I truly believed ELLs benefit from being in classrooms with native-English peers, I caught HELL from my then-boss, who has now been demoted. I did get support from my school administration, but only minimally. Basically, I was given the, “There’s no common planning time so it’s not a true co-teaching model” speech. BULLSHIT. If you want to make it work, you can make it work. How else have we been able to do it for half of my time? Over the years, I have talked to several administrators at my school about the disparity between the two situations, and the only thing I’ve heard them respond with is, “Well, the eighth grade teachers feel a heavier responsibility in getting the students ready for high school,” or, “Some teachers like to know that they are in control.” Is that even an answer to ANYTHING?? Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t we here to EDUCATE our students? Shouldn’t we be using our teachers to the best of their abilities? How can this happen when the administration is SO disconnected from the classroom? Has an administrator EVER ONCE come into a classroom that I co-teach? Never. In five years, not once.

I am very angry today for a multitude of reasons. The first stems back to a year and a half ago when the special ed teachers were no longer doing pull-out, and the administration mandated how they would co-teach. Somehow I was forgotten in this. The beginning of the last school year was probably the most demoralizing part of my career. Not only were the SPED teachers up at the front of the room on the first day of school, sharing the lesson with their “co-teachers,” but they had their names laminated with the classroom teacher at the front of the room, when the students asked, “Who is the teacher?” they replied, “We both are,” and guess where I was? Because no one had communicated ANY of this to me, I was in the back of the room, as always, in the same co-taught class, schedules already butchered for an entire school year of humiliation.

But that is not all. I had to fight tooth and nail with my school district’s ESL coordinator to even be allowed to do co-teaching in the first place. For years she has given me nothing but hell about it. And even though she has been “demoted” to an “ESL coach” whatever THAT means, she still has some say… So when I got a book in the inter-school mail last week for our inservice today called Co-Teaching, I about puked. Now, apparently, co-teaching is the appropriate model for ELLs. Not only did we spend all morning discussing this book, she had the ESL coordinator from another school district, a much more competent leader, come present some shocking research. Basically, by pulling students out of class for any amount of time, we are putting our already-at-risk ELLs at a much higher risk of dropping out of school. The difference between students who were pulled out and students who were in co-taught classes was an 11% risk of dropping out compared to a 60% risk.

Why does this piss me off? For one, because of massive budget cuts, all this information right now is probably a waste of time. What are the chances that any of the ESL teachers will be in similar positions next year? But also, WTF???? After all these years of giving me crap, this woman now is shoving it down our throats and telling us the pull-out model she insisted upon before is ineffective?

Here’s the problem with education: the administration is so out of touch with what actually happens in the classroom that they don’t know what’s best for kids. And when teachers try to talk to them, they need real support, not a brush-off statement or a direct denial. Teachers know. We are there every day, dealing with those kids. Give us some credit. And support us so that we can support them. Teach us how to co-teach and SUPPORT it. Treat us as equals to each other. Is that too much to ask?