i sent them out
in a red-lettered envelope
they cam back to me
with a black-lettered tag.
right on my cheek
the message sits
a tattoo destroying
the words i wanted back.
i scrub at the skin
wishing to wash them away
but the words are as permanent
as the tear stains i can’t replace.
what you and i lack is so obvious to me,
but paperwork blinds you from the truth.
i ache from illness, from distaste,
the acrid absence of your concern
resting on my tongue as if
i’ve been bitten by a venomous snake.
after one year of this nothing
has changed, and they will walk away
with little more than a few disconnected
terms rattling around in their brains,
burning me to my depths so that I am
unable to see the kindness in your eyes.
I will forgive you. After months apart
and casual hand waves in the hallway,
my ever-blossoming but always-behind
protégés tucked safely in another classroom,
I will look you in the eye, smile, nod,
and be forever content with my decision.
in the midst of this exhaustion-induced chaos.
i attempt to take control,
but it seeps away as the screams increase,
as the moment builds up,
tense block by tense block,
tears dripping down scream-reddened cheeks,
the clutching of toys
that refuse to be shared,
the day giving in to a night that will be
filled with frustration.
i am not one of them
even though my heart races,
my voice incalculably raises,
but you forget this.
soon we are all pouting our way to bed,
our sorrow and frustration
wrapped up with the heavy quilts
hand-sewn with the love that
should be holding us together.
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.
find what’s inside you to get you there
a song, a thought, a love, a prayer
it could be anything to keep you going
hiding in your legs without you knowing
find what’s inside you to get you there
find the inner strength you thought was rare
because once you delve in there’s no stopping
the courage it takes to keep you from dropping
find what’s inside you to get you there
the place in your soul without compare
you won’t regret this ache, this choice
that answers to your inner voice.
Things that mystify me this morning:
clouds that brag of stubbornly stuck rain,
suggestions of an activity that
they then don’t want to participate in,
you.
Yes, you. At every chance you
leave me out in the cold,
procrastinate and passively aggress
your coexistence with mine.
Yet, you expect me to cut the threads
on every stitch that’s holding me together
to meet your needs, to cover you,
when I’ve barely enough warmth myself.
It’s all right. I know that you don’t know
how to sew, but really? Pick up a needle,
read a manual, buy some cloth, and
weave your threads into another blanket.
Mine’s taken.
the end is near and we
itch for its arrival,
vigilant as predatory cats,
tails switching,
mouths watering,
eyes glowering,
prepared to pounce on prey
that will only feed us
for the summer months,
when, just as last fall,
we must accept our
new layer of fur,
duck in and out of doors
during cold winter months,
and wait, wait, wait
for the glory of the end,
for warmth,
for spring.
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.
when it’s a drought we curse the sky
when it pours we curse the clouds
when it’s cold we curse the snow
when it’s hot we curse the sun
if we took the time to see
that weather isn’t the enemy
then maybe we wouldn’t curse emptily,
but bask in Mother Nature’s glory
who, just like our own hardworking moms
gives us her products without any qualms
and shows us that sometimes what’s healthy is wanted
that without the need, we will always be haunted.
so when it’s a drought remember the rain
when it pours thank her for fruitful flowers
when it’s cold think of snow-melted rivers that
when it’s hot run cold into swim-ready lakes
and perhaps next time when the rain wrecks your day
or the snow makes your drive go a tad bit astray,
you’ll remember that it’s all for a reason,
that Mother Nature controls every season.
Your happiness reaches through the screen
and pulls at my heart
three thousand miles away,
popping tears (first of joy)
(then of anguish) into my eyes.
You stand behind him
at his Aruban birthday meal,
matching grins and goatees,
your hands intertwined,
two boys as happy as
lonely children granted
a whole day to spend with mom,
two lovers granted
their wish of a life together.
I want to reach out and capture
the purity of your emotion,
the love that exudes from
a depth that They will never reach,
and show the world
just how right you are
(right for each other,
right to love the one
your heart tells you to love).
And as the tears creep into my eyes
every time I place your photo in my mind,
I know that I will continue to reach,
reach, reach for what I know is right
even as the anguished tears tell me
that They think I (you) (we) are wrong.
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