Revolution (Revelation)

Sometimes I wonder what has become of parents and their kids. I feel constantly surrounded by families who seem to think that their children, and their needs, come before everyone else around them. It’s not just the parents of the students I teach—in fact, this is rarely the case. I see it in the parents of kids who are the same age as my daughters. And the more exposure I have to it, the more it burns me up.

It begins with the questioning of authority. Teachers in particular. These parents seem to think that they should be running the classroom, and in effect letting their kids have no consequences for their actions. And if the teacher thinks for one moment he’s going to punish his students for their behavior, he’s got another thing coming. Those parents will go straight to the principal rather than taking the time to set up a meeting with the teacher.

What I would like to see is this: a teacher going into an office of one of these parents. Maybe he wants to read one of the reports they wrote. And when the report doesn’t satisfy him, he won’t make suggestions for editing and revising. He’ll mark it up in red and go straight to the parent’s boss, complaining about what a shoddy employee he hired.

It’s a perfect analogy, really. Is that the way to deal with a problem? To take your angst behind the “perpetrator’s” back and try to get that person disciplined? And what message does this send to our kids? That’s the part that’s beyond fucked up.

Scenario:

“Mama, Mr. Jones won’t let us have our holiday party because he said we misbehaved.”

“Did you?”

“Well, it was half my fault, but the other kids were being naughtier.”

“I don’t agree with that at all. You’re in first grade, and I don’t think it’s fair to cancel the holiday party because of a few rotten kids. I’m going to speak to the principal in the morning. Mr. Jones shouldn’t do that.”

Thoughts in the child’s mind: I don’t have to listen to Mr. Jones. He’s going to get in trouble. We didn’t do anything wrong. He’s the one who’s wrong.

So the next time Mr. Jones asks this child to behave, will he? To do homework, will he? To show respect for authority, will he? Why? What is his motivation? The parents have stripped all authority and respect from the teacher, and their message to their children is loud and clear: your desires, no matter how petty, are more important than the teacher’s rules.

It doesn’t stop there. The parents lavish these children with every possible gift imaginable and birthday parties that cost upwards of $500. They invite every student in the class, expecting gifts (some invitations even specify which type of gifts!!) from all of them of course, and then don’t send out thank-you cards. (There are always exceptions, but they’re rare). And they do this for their kids every year so that the kids come to expect it. It’s no wonder these kids misbehave in the classroom setting (and other settings): they are the center of the world, the selfish, gluttonous world they’ve been raised in.

What is a parent to do? How can I raise my daughters to understand that they won’t have a giant birthday party every year, that when their teacher sends them home with a note that the class was naughty, they’re damn well going to write a letter of apology, that the world does not revolve around them even though their classmates seem to have this impression?

In this consumer-driven, corporate-sponsored society we’ve created for ourselves, we seem to have overlooked some important details about humanity: mainly, that our lives shouldn’t revolve around silly parties filled with cheap pieces of plastic, nonstop gifts, and a total disregard for what is most important—human relationships. The same parents who go over the teachers’ heads to complain to the principal are those who are spoiling their kids in every way imaginable. And while they complain, while they shop, they are missing out on what I value most about being a parent: spending quality time with my children as a family, showing them that giving to those in need is better than receiving, that respect is a part of going to school, and it begins at the classroom door, with the teacher.

In the end, how will they turn out? What kind of adults will they become? Only time will allow this revelation. But at least I can go to bed every night without the guilty conscious of a parent of an over-indulged, disrespectful child. And no matter how hard I have to fight this battle as my children witness this disrespect and indulgence among their peers, I know that in the end they will be better for it, that in the end, we will win the war. Because once they enter the real world, they will already know that it doesn’t revolve around them.

Map

just when we thought you were ready for
eighth grade, the final year of middle school,
you whooped and hollered and sang along
to a show made for two-year-olds

we’re amazed at how accurately
you had the lyrics memorized,
how well you knew the story,
its characters implanted into your brains.

try to keep in mind, young ones,
that you are thirteen, just over a year
from the hard work of high school, and
Dora’s map will not be there to guide you through.

May Daughters

Mythili

With pride, you grin to show
your mouth with its bloody hole
(your first lost tooth),
palming the remnant of an apple
that you tuck behind your back
like a puppy hiding her tail

“That’s great. Where’s the tooth?”
Bewilderment clouds your smile.
“I swallowed it.”
“That’s too bad,” I try empathy,
but it has broken through your doubt,
and giant droplets of loss
form at the corners of your eyes.

We make a mad-dashed search for Blankey,
and soon you are in my lap,
cuddling your tears away
as if you were still my toddler,
not the soon-to-be-kindergartener
who has just reached another milestone.

Isabella

One evening of defiance
(its pursuing punishment causing
a head-thrusting tantrum into your pillow)
has led us to the deal we make today:
show me you can behave
and I will grant your wish.

Bribery is the secret that every parent keeps,
and you are mostly silent in the trailer
of our long bike ride,
asking only three questions
along the 41-mile route:
“Are we lost?”
“Are we almost there?”
“Can we stop at the playground?”

You follow along the Girl Scout activities,
budding in line and asking questions,
only twice intertwining your hand with your friend’s
to identify shapes in clouds, to dance,
and when the long day comes to and end,
I pull you into my arms,
whisper what you want to hear,
in three words forgiving us both.

Riona

Though the time is short,
you insist on helping make dinner rolls.
You and Mythili fight over
stirring the flour,
patting the dough,
and who gets to sit on the counter.

I’m as flustered as a
bird with broken wings,
hopping about around you
and trying to get the job done.

“I wish we had a kitchen with an island
so you girls could be on the other side.”
Your response is so simple.
“I wish we had a ping pong room in the
basement, but first we need a bigger basement.”

And just like that,
I have forgotten about my broken wings,
my flustered flurry.
I hand you the dough
that you round into a ball too small
and smile, my frenzy tucked
quietly behind me.

Youth Revisited

while we can’t take back our youth
we can relive it in our children’s eyes

that is why
as much as i hate spending my Sunday
afternoon shivering in an indoor pool
while it is windy and fifty outside,

i must take joy in the excited
thrills of three girls
who play games,
splash each other and me,
and never wipe the smiles
away from their cheeks,
telling me time and time again
how much they love me
for bringing them here.

Release

a pile of bricks behind my back
held with twine that tears into my palms
(blood spilling as it rips the skin,
blood pouring onto them)

i can’t release it

every now and then a brick
will fall from the pile,
forcing me to stop my forward motion,
bend over, bring it back

i can’t release it

a pile of bricks behind my back
held with twine that tears into my muscles
(ripping them apart at the seams,
ripping me apart at the seams)

i can’t release it

every now and then a brick
will fall from the pile,
forcing me to stop, to mortar it
to the wall i try to repair

i can’t rebuild it

a pile of bricks behind my back
held with twine as thin as a line of fire
(burning me up with every step,
burning them up with every step)

i will release it

Waterfall

where does it come from?
the hand slapping strict rules of my youth?
the overworked and underpaid parents?
or the soul, searching for reconciliation?

i will never know

but i work to suppress it,
the overstressed frustration
that overflows onto them,
a waterfall of impatience
out of which they cannot swim

i am looking for the pool
where the river has settled after the fall,
where we can jump in and out,
never worrying about head bangings
or rapid currents,
where the water washes over us
in cool, complete calm.

i know it is there, waiting
(perhaps on the other side of the cliff)
and we can find it if we
take each other’s hands,
hope for the best,
and dive.

tears (tears)

with a flushed face and
remnants of tears, she
insists on putting her sandals on herself.

i clutch her in my arms,
guiding my hands over hers
to ensure they get put on the right feet.

it is the least i can do to calm my nerves,
the doctor’s receptionist’s voice
(calm as daylight): “She needs to go to the ER.”

i drive fast but he is already calling
(one mile out) “Maybe the fever will go down.”
he reads the Internet article.

i ponder what we would ever do without it
simultaneously cursing the web for making
me question my decision.

cursing myself for not charging my phone,
i call my office number one, two, three times.
no one answers. i will be alone with her.

and i cannot allow myself to cry this time
because Bruce won’t be there to wipe
the tears from my cheeks.

i use his phone to call my sister,
my medical expert, the scientist,
the cancer survivor, the new mother.

she knows more than me, and
before we even hang up, i have unbuckled
her, am carrying her to triage.

i think how at our doctor’s office
we almost never wait (how interminably
long they make us wait here, the tears flowing).

i stay strong and hold her hands as the nurse
squeezes in the last bit of Tylenol, as the doctor
swabs her throat, as she shakes and screams.

later (a phone call home, an antibiotics debate)
the doctor returns with a giant purple popsicle
and she is all smiles (we have survived).

we walk out, both of us, her tugging at her wrist,
and with the tone of a much-older-than-three-year-old,
“I need this bracelet off now.”

she tears at it on the ride home,
anxious to shred all evidence of this horrid affair,
the tears (hers and mine) released now with relief.

April Daughters

Isabella

with your Easter dress
and worn-out sneakers,
you carry yourself up the mountain
running so far in front
that you become a black crow
hidden among the scrub oaks,
waiting at the top on the bench
to announce to us all
the view that has brought us here,
proud of your strong legs,
your interminable energy,
your love for the outdoors.

Mythili

sitting at the middle school musical,
finger in mouth,
blankey in palm,
you turn to me and whisper,
“Is this the last song?” (your
ever polite mode of complaint)
and as we walk down the steps to leave,
I ask you how you enjoyed it.
Your reply: “That was SO long.”
(your ever polite mode of complaint)
We get to the car and you are asleep
before I have pulled away from the parking lot.

Riona

what you need
includes a simple list:
water
a wet rag to wipe your own face
getting pushed on the swing
(at least once a day)
cuddling on the couch
stories that have flaps
(or look-and-finds)
bread (so good that
it will keep you from
eating your dinner)
someone to open the white door
(you have figured out the screen door)
and
three blankets every night
(all made especially for you, my love).

What I Learned Today

One: squirrels are suicidal
dashing in front of tires in a race
that didn’t exist before
they saw me coming

Two: canals are the best
places to ride a bike along
(flat and meandering,
tree filled and peaceful)

Three: once again, fresh
homemade ice cream from
Bonnie Brae upholds its
“beautiful hill” standard.

Four: my girls are fish, in
and out of the water no
holds barred, ready for summer,
ready for anything.

Five: two hundred joggers in
Wash Park may look like a race to them,
but it’s just another Saturday in
Denver, just what my girls should see.

Six: the liquor store is also
known as the “licorice store”
because they have wine for us and
lollipops for them: a treat for all.

Seven: playing outside with
the neighbor kids is just as magical
for this generation as it was for mine,
just as free, and just the way to end the day.

My Own Middle Place

Please tell me why
when I read books like The Middle Place
I think of you and want to scream,
to relive my childhood:
I want a do-over

I don’t want the rants and raves
the banging on doors
the sharks in your eyes
swimming at me with their
hatchets of hatred

I want a mother who could cuddle
with me on the couch,
read me stories while I curl up,
thumb in mouth,
and before the sun even sets
share a moment of joy with me

not one who’s so obsessed
with the food that has to
go on the table that she
trades her smiles for sour looks
before even closing the door at work

Please tell me why I can’t have
that imaginary childhood,
why I cannot gratify my memories
with some sort of happiness
that will last beyond
the closing of this book,

a place where I am comforted,
I am safe,
a place where I know my mother
loves me,
a place where she has shed her tiger’s skin
and wrapped her arms
around my aching soul.