Substitution

There are no substitute teachers in Spain. When teachers have to miss school, another teacher in the building must cover their classes. Since they have to do this, then they are not required to actually teach, as it is technically their planning time. Because they are not required to teach, the students automatically feel that this period is then free time. Their behavior and attitude change tremendously, so that they think they should do nothing in these circumstances.

While this does discourage absenteeism on the part of teachers, what a pain in the ass! What a loss! I know many good teachers back in the States who reiterate the importance of quality behavior for substitutes, leave behind valuable lesson plans, and make sure that their students don’t miss an entire day of learning when their teachers are absent. Not only that, but think of all the people on the substitute list who are at least partially gainfully employed. There are so many unemployed people in Spain who could qualify as substitutes. They could kill three birds with one stone.

Sometimes the logic here seems backwards. They sacrifice so many things because they think they don’t have the money, when it is obvious that the majority of the government’s money comes from sales tax. The more people who have jobs, the more things they buy… it seems like a simple formula to me. I know it’s more complicated than that, but they could really change their educational system just a bit. Substitute teachers can continue on with the much-needed education, and students would then benefit, teachers would feel less stressed, and others would be employed.

Just another reason for me to be grateful for what I have… back home.

Españalution

early morning dark

we part with unanswered moon

new day hope awaits

 

history beckons

brighter than a ship’s home flag

Españalution

 

the wallet declines

what Señor Pérez offered

why some tell us no

 

words cannot define

Barcelona’s blue sky view

man made God-loved art

20121209-234447.jpg

20121209-234432.jpg

20121209-234547.jpg

20121209-234727.jpg

Zippers and Buckles

stitched by hand,
zippers and buckles,
this item is unique

no matter its origin–
a camel’s back (as you insist)
or the skin of a goat
as the market vendor declared,
it is a thing of beauty,
both in price and worth

i have told you the story
(how it burdens our hearts)
our money laid down for dreams,
some set aside for a moment of gratitude,
of generosity and love

how it hurts to hear
the reality of that purse,
as ungratefully carried
as her coat on that cold, cold night,
where i walked her to the car,
put her purse on her shoulder,
and made warmth where there was none

i cannot bear to think
how precious those dollars were,
the special trip with my mother,
all lost on another drunken night,
washed away with every token
of friendship tucked inside
the zippers and buckles of soft leather

you cannot tell me now
that this deal i have come across
is of no value

it is worth more to me than
the skin off a camel’s back

as soft as Morocco can provide,
lightweight and useful,
my first new purse in fifteen years,
it is my dream materialized,
lost friends forgiven for a new day,
zippers and buckles for every last
desire i have yet to fulfill

Huelga de la Lluvia

bizcocho in bed
Spanish huelga on the streets
sunny ‘snow day’

20121114-162311.jpg

20121114-162304.jpg

Infiltration

i am infiltrated with imagery–
a small town upbringing
infused with adolescent inner city,
torn apart by the desire for more
the desire to make more
out of this oh-so-short life

like drones we clock in, clock out
stay in the same place
and never put our lives on the line
for a new awakening

i put it here now
to step out of Big Brother’s reach,
yet he still watches my every move.
i feel his shadow behind me
mechanically moving my arms,
tearing away my emotions,
like being put in the room with rats

will i step out into the new world,
suck on the bitter gin
and tell him how much i love him
while my soul lies dead
inside my robotic body?

or will i find the forest
–the escape route–
and become the person
i always dreamed i’d become?

Puncture Wound

you are the hole in my tube,
tiny as a pin prick,
a puncture wound,
not for one second
able to hold the air
i fruitlessly pump.

your removal is tedious,
leaves road remnants
and layers of unwashable dirt
on my palms and fingertips,
takes an extra set of hands
and real strength to complete.

i haven’t the strength
to discover how you ruined my day,
only the muscles to move on,
to accept that you’re now
lying on the floor of my garage,
a haunting shadow
that tries to follow me everywhere.

Underbelly

we are here now,
sister, brother-in-law, niece,
grandparents who have filled
the underbelly of the tree
with Wal-mart’s
explosion of Chinese reality.

he and i lie in the dark
on our basement floor mattress,
the tint of the waning moon
lingering light upon his whiskered face.

Santa has already arrived,
stripped down because
the underbelly of the tree
regurgitated its recklessness.

i will never forget,
i tell him,
this time at my own
grandparents’ house,
when my mother,
her measly salary
half of my father’s pittance,
after seeing the
gifts my grandmother
inundated us with,
turned to him and said,
‘I hate being poor.

i try to remember this
as we rise before the sun,
set up the camera
in anticipation of their anxious faces,
and spend hours
exchanging money, goods
from the underbelly of the tree
that seems to mock,
wealth, wealth, wealth
with its shedding branches
that drop needles
like tears onto the hardwood.

Giggling Circles

I was your age once
and when the teacher said,
Do your homework
and everyone sat
in giggling circles
of middle school talk,
abandoning all ambition,
I sat alone at my desk
and finished my assignments,
never once in three years
taking one home,
yet had a straight-A report card.

Perhaps that is why
I cannot relate to you,
finals coming down your pike
faster than the bullet train,
yet you sit in giggling circles
of apathy, no worries for home life,
your future, education passing
by before you can hold out your ticket.

I wish you could see yourself
ten, fifteen years from now,
remembering (forgetting) this time.
Perhaps you would look back
and wish you had taken
your seat on that train that passed,
or perhaps you will still sit
in giggling circles,
unaware of all that you have missed.

Music

the leaves left from fall
dance across our patio,
their crisp skeletal skins skidding
to the howling background hymn.

this same howling harmony
danced across the road today,
beating me down to my bones
as i pushed toward a quieter tune.

trapped inside a fluorescent prison,
i couldn’t quite find the melody
that with a few angry notes
the wind whipped out of me.

perhaps you stand somewhere
on the other side of the sky,
unable to hear the song i sing
amidst the howling, haunting music.

Writing My Bike

it came to me in the summer.
Writing My Bike:
this should be the name of my new blog.
will i only write when i ride?
will i only ride when i write?

winter’s creeping in
with bitter cold mornings
that make my pedals run stiffly,
my layered legs tight with frost,
my mittened hands gripping
the first wisps of light on early mornings.

He may try, but Jack Frost can’t deter me.
i’ll be writing my bike to the top
of a mountain in May (racing a train),
and i need these legs to pedal me
through everything that will come
between now and then.