Cursing the Wind

I can’t curse the wind
it carries the seeds
that make the flowers
to decorate my view

I can’t curse the wind
it pushes me harder
to meet my ambition
that makes me stronger

I can’t curse the wind
it creates the change
that we all need with
a little airing out

I can’t curse the wind
no matter how much
it stings my skin, because
without it I am stagnant.

Wild Like Me

sometimes i think i should hold them in
and hide myself behind a wall of demureness
or feign politeness beneath a shadow of civility

i know they send shockwaves through crowds
and cause murmurs and looks among friends
and send shivers up my mother’s spine

sometimes i think i should hold them in
because what role am I modeling for my girls
who seem to have opinions growing from their mouths?

but then I think, holding them in would mean
holding in my strength, my courage, myself,
and isn’t that the person I want them to know?

sometimes I think I should hold them in
but my words are not reigns and people aren’t tame:
on the inside, they’re wild like me, I know it.

and my words (offensive or not) allow them
to see for one moment (could be an hour)
what it’s like on the other side of the fence.

What He Does

What he does if you need to know
(really? it’s been five years)
is wake up one morning girl
and two obstinately not-morning girls
arguing with them to
go to the bathroom, get dressed,
eat breakfast, brush teeth,
and get out the door
before most people have left for work.

Alone, because I have usually
left already to enjoy a bike ride to school
(something he allows me to do
every day if I want, without question)
and even if they don’t want to do
any of it, with his patient words,
his no-nonsense attitude,
he convinces them to obey.

What next? You’d be amazed.
Takes Mythili back and forth
to preschool, setting timers for
snack and show-and-tell reminders,
grocery shopping with Riona in tow,
plans a menu that is healthy
(and that they’ll all eat, and that
we can afford), cooks and does dishes,
sets out my morning coffee and oatmeal,
cleans the house top to bottom every Friday,
(have you ever seen Dad use a vacuum?)
budgets and pays all our bills,
takes the girls to the park,
the zoo, the museum,
sets up play dates
and manages homework.

All without one critical word,
with the sensitive nurturing
every child needs and deserves,
all so that our evenings are calm,
relaxed, child-filled (not errand-filled),
so that we have a home, not a house.

What does he do, you ask?
Have you not seen our spotless home,
tasted our delectable dinners,
thrived on his technological advice,
and witnessed firsthand those
small arms reaching out for Daddy?

Let me apologize.
Perhaps you have not been blinded by love,
or perhaps in your narrow world of
work, work, work,
you have forgotten (or never knew)
what a happy family,
a perfect husband,
looks like.

Soles (Souls)

I will remember when I complain
of my aching feet,
my seemingly disconnected joints,
those tiny porters
(miniature gods)
who didn’t have the money
to go to the fancy running store
and have their strides analyzed,
buying new sneakers
for $100 to relieve the
pounding of pavement on soles (souls)

I will remember when I complain
the three overstuffed backpacks
they each strapped to their narrow backs,
the recycled tires
that didn’t cover the exposed soles (souls)
on their small, Peruvian feet,
the cans of propane and three dozen eggs
they carried in each hand
as they raced up the mountain
in front of us tired tourists,
setting up twenty tents, hot tea, and cookies
before any of us could make
half a step up the million along the Inca trail.

I will remember when I complain
that this is easy,
that anyone could run a half marathon,
that the weight I carry will never match
the burden of poverty
that pushes them beyond human strength
to the top of the mountain,
to the ruins famous worldwide,
to the place where we should all be equal,
where history plus nature creates a masterpiece,
the place where our souls (soles) may rest.

For the Ring Master

everyone posted pics of Easter today
(some writing religious messages),
children in brightly colored dresses
or sweater vests searching for eggs
(me, too, the girls holding up candy
treasures and invading each other’s baskets)
some were bright-eyed babies, others
older kids who knew the game too well,
diving for eggs under trees or behind bushes,
their rainbow of baskets an afterthought in their palms.

but my favorites had to be my cousin
with his glaringly orange, silk-flowered,
feather-to-the-sky top hat, tinted orange glasses,
and his springy head-to-toe pink explosion of
daffodils, scarves, and feminine-beauty partner,
and their “gay meth lab,” (dyeing eggs that I
see hanging from a tree in the background)
for all the beauty of love, diversity of celebration,
for the “Ring Master of the gayest Easter on Earth!”
for a new rainbow of love on this holiday.

Keep the Best and Eliminate the Rest

They’ve all but hired a new superintendent for our school district. Googling her led me to her job-jumping status quo. First in Des Moines, then Tucson, but only in Tucson for two years. This is just like the last superintendent we had, who jumped from job to job, and he ran this district… well, into the ground, really. But that’s just my opinion. I must say I have never seen such an exorbitant amount of money spent on such ridiculous things. He spent it all on conferences, luncheons, unneeded administration, and mileage, then fled.

I found out about the new superintendent earlier today, right on the tails of me reading an article from the cover of Newsweek about education reform. They did a beautifully creative cover. In the background, written in chalk a hundred times, were the words, “Fire bad teachers.” Ouch. The article went on to explain that because of the unions, teachers have almost zero chance of termination after they acquire tenure. In fact, less than .02 percent!

I must say, having team taught for five years, I would have to somewhat agree with this article. It’s hard for me to accept that agreement, because I am a liberal, and of course I’m part of the teachers’ union. But at the same time, I’ve seen a couple—and I really mean just a couple—of teachers who really shouldn’t be teaching. If they don’t care about the kids’ education, how are the kids ever going to care? As a teacher of at-risk ELLs, this bothers me tremendously. I need my students to succeed more than I need for their white, middle-class counterparts to, because ELLs have a much higher likelihood of dropping out. So when teachers are ineffective, have poor management, and simply don’t invest care into what they do, it has a huge impact on students whose families might already be wary of the educational system (and teachers) as it is.

With our school district not only having to hire a new superintendent (who might not stick around!) to replace the one who fled, but also facing year four of drastic budget cuts, teachers and support staff are losing their jobs in every school. And who is leaving? Well, the new teachers, the probationary teachers, of course. Not a chance that anyone else would be considered to be put on the chopping block, though I know for a fact that I am not the only one who feels that there would be some different, weaker teachers in our school who should go instead of strong, new teachers whose only weakness are their hire dates.

So I will admit that the system has flaws. What began more than a hundred years ago as an attempt to improve salaries and benefits for teachers has now, in effect, backfired and hurt our children. Just as the Newsweek article pointed out, now that women have more choices about careers, most won’t choose teaching, and most public school districts pick teachers from lower-performing colleges. And so many teachers enter the career having minimal training in classroom management, which is the most important factor for student success.

But what are we supposed to do? Reform an entire system in an attempt to find and keep good teachers and fire bad ones? It is possible, but again I become discouraged by Newsweek’s, and other more conservative media’s, simple answer to this question: base teachers’ pay and rehiring on students’ test scores. This cannot be the determining factor, and here is where my liberal blood boils. Being an ELL teacher, I see how weak students’ scores are on standardized tests for the first several years that they are acquiring English. No teacher, no matter how effective, is going to be able to break down the linguistic barrier that hampers their success without years of language immersion and sheltered instruction. And with the percentage of ELLs increasing every year (this group, in fact, is the fastest growing population of students in U.S. schools), in every state, we need to use more data than test scores to evaluate teachers.

The truth is, there is no easy answer to the question of education reform. But it needs to happen. We need administrators, the U.S. Department of Education, and superintendents to stick with their school districts and to work with teachers (the ones in the trenches) to come up with solutions for reforming teacher evaluation techniques. If you ask effective teachers how they feel about ineffective ones, they are the first and most opinionated about calling out their weaknesses and admitting their need for removal, because those teachers’ ineffectiveness destroys what effective teachers are trying to do: educate our students to the highest level of expectation. And if we are all on board about what’s best for students (good teachers!) then we should all be able to work together to keep the best and eliminate the rest.

Black Bicycle Tires

At sixteen
(almost seventeen)
I wrote in my journal:
“Busiest street in the city
a solid two days in a row
you crossed it in between
rushes of cars, slow uphill
in gray breath-spilling morning,
heated gasps down the slope in the afternoon.

‘God is sending me miracles!’
you scream out, because
nothing moves as quickly
as black bicycle tires
when it’s almost summer.”

At thirty-one
(almost thirty two),
I write in my journal:
“Silver or magenta,
mountain or road,
black bicycle tires
erase the pain
before and behind me,
a majestic blur of
rubber on pavement,
a remedy for adolescence,
adulthood,
life.

One Day

Some people call me a hippie
not realizing
they’re being complimentary
because I’d rather be a hippie
who loves the earth
than a “conservative”
who does the opposite of conserving
the water that our children
will one day thirst for,
the ecosystems
that will one day
destroy the earth in their absence,
the (now demolished for mining) mountaintops
that one day inspired our ancestors.

Yes, I think a “dirty hippie”
whose feet carry the dust
of garden soil,
whose heart yearns for freedom
(our planet’s freedom)
whose soul aches to conserve
whatever it is we have left,
will one day be an admirable term.

Parenting

with prime rib (though it’s not a holiday)
the Riesling I love
three kids who eat their dinner
(for once)
a conversation that is multifaceted
and has not a hint of anger,
I am happy (so happy)
for the family that I have
for the family (though at times
I feel plagued by them)
that I love
(the parents who stayed
together through the tough times,
who buy and cook whole foods
who don’t force their beliefs upon me,
who love my kids,
who raised me to be strong,
to be the parent,
the best parent, that I can be).

Heaven on Earth

Dedicated to the Glenwood Canyon Bike Trail

the sky here is always blue
(clouds sneak in each afternoon
but the mountain air chases them off)
and in the morning you just might see
(you just might, if you find the soul of God)
a herd of bighorn sheep
(brown now, September leaves golden)
startled by you
and the dawn that tickles
their grass-eating lips

you can stop your pedaling
or keep going
(keep going)
because the beauty doesn’t end there—
you will breathe it into your lungs,
the light heaviness of
the red rock canyon,
the perfectly laid path that winds
along the river that
has carved out this magnificence
so you
(you, them, everyone)
can taste for these delicious
high altitude moments
Heaven on Earth.