Reflections on the Teche

Spring surprised me this year.  Don’t know why.  Guess I’ve been too busy.  All of a sudden a few weeks ago, my yard burst  into blossoms.  This weekend I am finally having a moment to look out the window, something I should do more often.  The colors of green are like a green rainbow, colors I could not recreate on a paint palate.  As spring was happening, I wrote two rather quick poems.  They were quick like the spring to me.  The first is a prose stream of consciousness, the second I stole lines and form from one of my favorite poets, Billy Collins.  I hope you enjoy my musings over spring.

Spring Happens

It is here; spring happens, ready or not, car washes on every corner, growing crowds at the baseball fields, everyone walks their dogs in the park, go for a ride with the top down, hear the birds chirp-chitter-chatter, smell the flowers blooming; azaleas, bridal wreath, wisteria, sweet olive, and I didn’t have to plant a thing or weed or trim, they just came like bursts of fireworks on the Fourth of July, lighting up my world, surprising me when I raise the blinds.  Spring happens, no preparation, no wait-a-minute, here it is…wake up!

Burst into Spring

                **After Billy Collins, Today

If ever there was a spring day so perfect,
so stirred up by a cool crisp wind

that you wanted to breathe more often
to taste the wisteria blossoms,

and throw open all the doors,
lift them clear off the hinges,

a day so bright the pink azaleas
pop open like a birthday balloon bouquet,

seemed so delightful that you felt like
running naked among them,

released from all inhibitions taking flight
outstretched arms playing airplane,

so you could fly on steady wings
balanced for lift and drinking nectar,

yes, you can imagine it,
today is just that kind of day.

Growing up a southern girl in Jackson, Ms in the 60’s and 70’s was not anything special or unusual.  At least that’s what I thought.  I thought it was more exciting to be an LSU tiger and to live on the bayou among cypress trees and alligators.  I have willingly embraced the culture of south Louisiana. 

But this weekend I have taken a tourist’s trip back to my hometown.  I joined my Berry Queens on their annual trip to the Sweet Potato Queen’s Weekend.  Wow! What fun!  Like Mardi Gras on State Street.  I actually witnessed a New Orleans style second line and port-a-potties dressed up like queens.  The area known as Fondren has become an artist community of boutiques and restaurants preserving the old 60s style store fronts from my childhood.  There’s a row that is now known as The Help Row because it will be seen in the movie “The Help” due out this fall.  (If you haven’t read the book yet, read it.)

I was on a quest for a coffee, still nursing a slight hangover from the first night’s partying.  I walked into a coffee house named the Steaming Beans located in an old house with a front porch and wood floors.  When I walked in, I attracted stares from a man at the counter.  OK, I was wearing my Berry Queen t-shirt, a short jean skirt with a strawberry belt, and snake skin “Goodwill” cowboy boots, but compared to the night before when I wore a lipstick red wig, I thought I looked fairly normal.  This guy looked at me like “Where did you come from?” 

I thought, “Who are you to stare at me?” This man had on black leather, cropped, pointy-toe boots with big brass buckles, a large black leather “man purse” with chains, and his hair was pulled up in a bun with highlights of pink and purple.  But he was obviously a regular customer and I was a stranger.

Later Saturday evening, the Berry Queens attended the first annual Zippity Do Dah parade in Fondren.  My high school alma mater led the parade.  I shouted, “Go Murrah Mustangs!” and later hugged one of the dance team girls congratulating their performance.  Not only did I enjoy a weekend of dress-up with Berry girlfriends, I also enjoyed seeing my town through new eyes.  I became a stranger in my own hometown.

For many people, the National Writing Project is a onetime institute for professional development.  But for some, it is a journey of discovery, nurturer of friendships, and a way of life.   Fifteen years ago, I went through the Summer Institute for the National Writing Project of Acadiana.  This experienced changed my life.  I found a philosophy of teaching I could call my own.  I found a group of people who believed in education. And I found a writer in me. 

Through my involvement in NWP, I have found many lifelong friends, mentors, and writing coaches.  I have worked with the same writing group for more than 10 years.  We have learned from each other, grown with each other, and supported each other. 

Through my involvement with this model of teachers teaching teachers, I have found empowerment to become the best teacher I could be.  I pursued a Masters in gifted education.  I was able to tackle the process of becoming a National Board Certified Teacher.  I have given presentations in cities such as Albuquerque, New Mexico, Philadelphia, PA, and Little Rock, AK.  I have published articles and poems in national journals.  The door to teacher leadership is open to me by NWP.

In the last eight years, I have led writing contests and youth writing camps for students.  Through these activities, I have passed on the “I am a writer” feeling.  I have given students encouragement to believe in themselves and to become the best they can be. 

President Obama has signed a bill that would eliminate funding for the National Writing Project.    In a statement on March 6, 2011, Sharon Washington, the executive director of NWP said, “This decision puts in grave jeopardy a nationwide network of 70,000 teachers who, through 200 university-based Writing Project sites, provide local leadership for innovation and deliver localized, high-quality professional development to other educators across the country in all states, across subjects and grades. In the last year alone, these leaders provided services to over 3,000 school districts to raise student achievement in writing.” 

I am one teacher in a world of thousands who have found a home with the National Writing Project.  We have found a group that pushes each other to be professionals in a field that is failing.  Together we write for a cause.  Writing matters!

Last night I watched a program on LPB featuring a Boston high school.  Their test scores were falling, failure rate was high, and there was little going for this school.  What turned it around?  Literacy: A program of writing across the curriculum.  Today, a Mexican American girl from this school will be the first in her family to attend college, and all because she was taught how to write.  Writing saves!

If the federal funding for NWP fails, it will not destroy the National Writing Project.  For 20 years, NWP has been an authorized national professional development program.  NWP will survive, I have little doubt.  Writing survives!

Writing marathon for Yeah, You Write! youth writing camp

Redbud at Center St. Elementary School

Worry…Panic…Fear

“So do not worry about tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”
Matthew 6:34 New American Standard Bible

I had my first panic attack last week.  It happened at school, of all places.  I woke up with a headache, so I decided not to go to exercise…first mistake.   Then right before I left for the day, I found pee at the back door.  (Sammy, the cat, is getting old and doesn’t use the litter box much anymore.)  I had to frantically clean the mess, putting me in a rush, an angry rush at that.  When I got to school, I went straight to the cafeteria where I have breakfast duty.  There my headache turned into a woozy, dizzy feeling.  I started to think about what would happen if I fainted right there in front of all the kids, the fatal mistake.  I left the cafeteria and went to the teacher’s lounge.  If I was going to faint, I did not want to be alone in my classroom.  When I walked in, I saw two kind teacher-friends.  That did it.  I told them I felt faint, went to the sofa, and started crying and shaking uncontrollably.  After a few minutes I could verbalize that I thought I was having a panic attack.  The teachers stayed with me, calming me, telling me it would all be OK.  Eventually I pulled myself together.  Another teacher-friend offered an ice pack while another offered me a Xanax she had in her purse.  I didn’t take the latter offer.

After a call to my doctor, I calmed down.  He told me to go about my regular day so I wouldn’t focus on “what’s wrong with me.”  I took his advice.  I felt tired and still had the headache most of the day, but I remained calm.  What caused this, I don’t really know.  The nurse at school suggested that the rushing and anger over the cat pee must’ve made my adrenaline kick in high gear leading to the attack.  Who knows?  I do know that I don’t want to ever have that happen again, but I also know that, if it does, I am not alone.  I live and work in a supportive environment.

A Google search told me that one out of every 75 people worldwide will experience a panic attack some time in their lifetime.  On Sunday, Deacon Diane Moore preached on worry, the Gospel reading.  She said that 118 million people in the US take some sort of anxiety medication.  I hope I don’t become one of them; although, if I continue to experience these attacks, I will definitely sign up for drugs.  But for now, I plan to focus on the beauty of spring.  I also plan to rely on the main point of Diane’s sermon…trust: Trust that God will be there.  I know bad things happen to good people, but with God on my side, as well as supportive and kind colleagues and friends, I’ll be fine.

“If God gives such attention to the appearance of wildflowers—most of which are never even seen—don’t you think he’ll attend to you, take pride in you, do his best for you?  Steep your life in God-reality, God-initiative, God-provisions.  Don’t worry about missing out.  You’ll find all your everyday human concerns will be met.”

 The Message// Remix: The Bible in Contemporary Language, Eugene H. Peterson

Pelican don’t die
We want you to stay alive
We will protect you

By Matthew, first grade

When I started this blog, my intention was to write life reflections but not necessarily about my teaching, but today I am making an exception.  If you have spent any time with me lately, you have likely heard a Matthew story or two.

Matthew is new to my gifted classroom.  I started servicing him in January.  He is the first first grade student I have ever had.  He displays many characteristics of young giftedness; He has a focused interest in one subject, sharks, and he speaks with the vocabulary of a 17 year old rather than a 7 year old.  The first day Matthew and I worked together I wanted him to write in his new journal (decorated by him in shark pictures).  I asked him to draw a picture and make a caption about a story we had just read.  He said,”Since you are teaching me about writing captions, then I should write about sharks because I know a lot about sharks.”

Precocious, to say the least, but Matthew is also a joy!  He bounds into the room daily ready for the next learning adventure.  Recently, we were preparing entries for the Language Arts Festival writing contest.  In the 1^st-3^rd category of poetry, haiku was an option.  Matthew said, “But I don’t even know what a haiku is.  How can I write one?”  So, of course, this writing teacher, taught him how to write one.  I explained the 5-7-5 syllabic pattern and asked Matthew to look out of the classroom window to observe nature.  Our school is positioned in the midst of a sugarcane field and with this being winter, no cane is growing.  The bare land stretched out toward the horizon.  And Matthew wrote beautifully about the clover blowing in the breeze and saying goodbye to winter.  I’m not sure yet if it’s a contest winner, but to Matthew, he became the instant “king of haiku.” 

In class with Matthew are Kaylie, a 4^th grader, and Alexis, a 6^th grader.  They also enjoy Matthew.  When he was reading a 6^th grade leveled nonfiction book about big cats, he would read aloud loudly.  This never disturbed the girls. When he came to a word he didn’t know, he spelled it out and one of us would tell him what it was.  We are a classroom of learners.

The girls have been participating on Voices on the Gulf, a website set up originally in response to the Gulf oil spill yet has evolved into a space for students to interact about place-based inquiry.  My students have been active on the site all year, but Matthew hadn’t posted anything yet, and he was itching to, so when he wrote another haiku during writing time about a pelican, I said, “This would make a great post on Voices on the Gulf.”  Matthew quickly went to the art cabinet and set about painting an illustration.  The result was this adorable pelican with outstretched wings and the poem above. 

The day after I posted Matthew’s pelican poem, he had a response.  The students get very excited about these responses.  Matthew’s responder dubbed him “Pele-man.”  Matthew replied to his anonymous responder, “Thanks I’m touched very touched. this is how i write haiku, i am relly confIdent and look out my classroom window and write down the things I see. Then choos words for my haiku. well that is all I have to say. your friend, pele-man”     You can view the entire post with comments at http://www.voicesonthegulf.org/discussion/pelican

Last week, I told Matthew that he brought joy to our classroom.  He said, “Thank you. I wonder if Alexis thinks so.”  I asked Alexis, and she turned to Matthew with a big grin, “Oh, yes, Matthew, more than words can say.”

A Love Story

Happy Valentine’s Day!

This day is not the biggest celebration in our family.  When the girls were younger, Jeff was in charge of getting them a card and some chocolate.  Now he practices a must-be-present-to-win policy, so only Maggie and I got chocolate this year, Godiva no less.

I count myself blessed, though, in the Valentine’s Day department.  I married my best friend 28.5 years ago.  Who would’ve thought at not quite 21 years old I knew anything about love, much less how to create a lasting relationship?  But I will never forget my mother’s advice (she and my dad celebrated 50 years this past summer.)  She said that the couple that grows together, stays together.  She drew two lines with her hands like the two lanes of a 4-lane highway.  “The two of you travel side by side.”  I believe that is the secret and the gift of my relationship with Jeff.

Last week when Jeff and I were out to dinner, we passed a table where a couple sat on the same side of the booth feeding each other French fries.  Jeff noticed that they had ordered the same entrée.  He said, “We don’t order the same thing.  I like to go kayaking and you like writing.” My Valentine’s card today read “A pinch of you, a dash of me,” underneath a photo of a salt and pepper shaker.  Together we balance each other, compliment each other.  We are different, and that’s OK.  As long as we support each other’s choices, talents, and passions, we will continue to grow together on this life-love road. 

This is a photo of the rainbow barn, now gone, near Hazelhurst, MS. on I-55.  I have long looked for this icon on my trips home to Jackson.  My sister said I told her once that I wanted to have my wedding reception here.  I am sad that it is no longer standing.  The photo was found on Flickr.   It was posted on a blog site by photographer Patrick Brown.

There’s no Place Like Home

Home is a place we all must find, child. It’s not just a place where you eat or sleep. Home is knowing. Knowing your mind, knowing your heart, knowing your courage. If we know ourselves, we’re always home, anywhere.
                                Glinda, the Good Witch of the North

The Wizard of Oz is a classic source of wisdom.  In our family, it has become a part of our lore.  When someone is pretending to be an expert on something, we say, “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.”  Everyone knows that there’s no place like home, and we’ve all memorized the words to “Somewhere over the Rainbow.”  But my favorite wisdom comes from Glinda the Good Witch of the North, “If we know ourselves, we are always home.”

Jeff and I have been invited to attend the Musty Krewe of Wrecks Mardi Gras Ball next weekend.  It’s a costume ball I’ve heard was started by Al Landry, famous for Lagniappe Too restaurant in New Iberia.  The last time we attended this ball we had no children, and we dressed up as crayons.  This time we are joining friends as The Wizard of Oz characters.  I will be Glinda, the Good Witch of the North, and Jeff will be The Cowardly Lion, each of our favorite characters.

Jeff’s favorite scene is when the lion sings, “What makes the Hottentots so hot? Who put the ape in apricot?  What do they got that I ain’t got…courage!”   Did you know there is an entire website devoted to Wizard of Oz costumes?  Jeff ordered his Cowardly Lion costume yesterday and is anxiously awaiting its arrival.  I am happy to be going as Glinda, the Good Witch.  I found a dress at a second hand shop in New Orleans, have had it cleaned and repaired, and have added puffy sleeves.  I still need to make the crown and locate a wig. 

Imagine what a wonderful teacher Glinda would be: kind, loving, wise, and beautiful (“Only the bad witches are ugly”). She would make her students the best they could be because she knows that all they need is already inside them. 

Knowing your mind, knowing your heart, and knowing your courage can be a life-long pursuit.  Hidden in my closet is my diary from 1975 when I was 14 years old.  At the bottom of one of the pages in big print letters, I wrote, “I want to be a writer, if only I had the courage.”  So here I am some 35 years later still looking for that courage.  As I channel Glinda, she is telling me that all I need is inside me.  I have what it takes to live my dream.  I am already home.

One of the fun parts about writing a blog has been looking through old poems to find one to fit the daily theme.  I found this prose poem I wrote back in 2004 when there were still kids around. 

Home is here. Home is sitting alone. Home is sitting around together, watching TV, watching stars, reading the news, petting the dogs.  Home is finding a cat on the side of the road and taking it home to be your cat.  Home is finding an Easter egg in August hidden long ago in the flower pot.  Home is smelling coffee with the early morning dew still on the grass.  Home is that squeaky sound of the back screen door and hearing “Mom?” echoing down the hallway.  Home is a kiss on the forehead to say good-night with the scent of fresh soap after a long bath.  Home is littered with dog hair and junk mail.  An easy word to spell and a place to always come…home is here.

It’s Never a Bad Idea

Tenderness and kindness are not signs of weakness and despair, but manifestations of strength and resolution. –Kahlil Gibran

We have a philosophy in our house: “It’s never a bad idea to go to the funeral home.”  I realized this truth six years ago when Jeff’s dad died.  Hanging out at the funeral home is uncomfortable. Yet, when someone who cares walks through the door to offer you a hug, it’s an action greater than comfort.  It’s the kindness of support and holding each other up at a time when you would like to crawl under the table and cry. 

Recently, one of my students, Alexis, lost her uncle in a tragic way.  I wanted to go to the funeral home mainly to check on her and let her know she was missed at school.  Alexis greeted me with a happy smile obviously pleased to be dressed in her new outfit. (As much as I try to teach them otherwise, sixth graders care way too much about the way they look.) She wanted me to meet her grandparents.  Awkward!  I didn’t want the first time that I would meet them to be under these circumstances. Also, it meant I had to walk up by the coffin to view the body of her young uncle gone-too-soon.  She left me standing there hugging her grandpa.  He cried and talked to me about his son, Alexis’s father, not the deceased one.  He was so proud of how his granddaughter was doing in school.  Then I turned to the grandmother, another hug, and another sentimental conversation.  I left feeling loved and comforted even though that was not my need or intent. It’s never a bad idea to go to the funeral home.

This week my friend Susan’s mother died. Susan’s daughter, Laura, and my youngest, Martha, grew up together.  They spent weekends either in New Iberia or Abbeville.  Susan was like another mother to Martha.  But life and time has separated us as our daughters went to different colleges.  When I called Martha to tell her the news, she said, “But I haven’t talked to her in a while.  What should I say?”

“Tell her you are sorry.  Tell her how you remember her grandmother.  Just be present.”

Later, Martha called me back to thank me for telling her to call.  It’s never a bad idea.

When someone dies, we are comforted by the small things: the phone call, the hug, the gentle tear of empathy.  It’s about being there.  It’s about being present in grief.  We have to lose a little bit of ourselves to be present for others.  We have to stop worrying about the what-to-say and the what-if-she-cries business.  Reaching out always feels better.  Being present always leads to a full heart.

This poem speaks of empathy, that special ability to join with someone in their grief or pain.

Empathy

Your hug touches me,
            the meaning of skin on skin
                                comforts like the soft cyan sky.

Treeless sugarcane fields
             hug the road while
                                the red-tailed hawk patrols.

He sweeps the air
             in a mysterious circle,
                      and I wander the horizon –searching.

The sacred call limited not by sky-
                its scraping scream echoes in the hollow
                       of my heart. 

You recognize
              this pain
                      and join me.

“Yes, a dark time passed over this land, but now there is something like light.”
— Dave Eggers (Zeitoun)

I can’t bring myself to leave the city.  It’s a beautiful Monday, blue skies, 65 degrees, and a holiday: Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Day.  A perfect day in New Orleans!  After having a chilly invigorating walk in Audubon Park, I enjoyed a filling lunch at Capdeville with Katherine complete with truffle parmesan fries and tomato fennel soup.  We walked over from her 24^th floor office on Poydras.

Now, I have stopped on Maple Street where, between 2003 and 2008, I would hang out with Maggie when she was attending Loyola.  Maple Street is alive today with young women walking in their leggings and boots, an Asian woman with a baby in a front pouch, and couples walking their dogs.  The line at Starbucks was too long, so I am sitting with my laptop feeling quite in-place on the patio. 

New Orleans is alive again, and it fills me with joy.  In the park this morning, there were walkers, runners, and cyclists young and old.  The huge oaks offered shade and shapes to the path.  The pond was noisy with egrets, ibis, ducks, and geese.  The street cars were running side by side ringing their bells to say hello.  On this mild winter day, New Orleans is a city renewed.

When Maggie was beginning her junior year at Loyola, she never made it back to her apartment on Napoleon.  Instead, she packed suitcases full and flew to New York City to attend Fordham University in the Bronx.  I was comforted by the friendly faces that embraced her with caring, but on the lonely flight home, I cried.  I wept for the daughter far away in a strange place, and I wept for the drowned city that I loved.  A few months later, Jeff and I drove to her apartment that had survived the flood to pack up her stuff left there.  My heart was heavy as we negotiated abandoned streets and rotting refrigerators.  The city even smelled rotten and felt hollow, in mourning.

Five years later, another daughter is living here, uptown in a much nicer duplex.  Katherine has become quite the professional woman navigating the streets like a pro and talking about the growing advertising business.  Even though the streets are still bumpy with potholes, I am enjoying the cool breeze, the activity of the day off, and the resurrection of a lost city. 

 Audubon Pond with flying ibis.

Art is more about finding out what you don’t know than saying what you do know.

Yesterday I received a birthday present in the mail.  What a treat, especially since my birthday was in August!  My best friend from childhood sent it, a 2011 calendar of Wyatt Waters’ watercolor paintings.  Missy and I grew up together in Jackson.  We have remained friends all these years and try to get together at least once a year.  After our breakfast together in Jackson before Christmas, she went upstairs to a book store.  She wrote, “As I walked in the door this calendar caught my eye and reminded me of you.”  I love it!  It is me!  But more than loving the beautiful artwork, I love that I have a friend who knows me and thinks of me.

Wyatt Waters is a watercolor artist from Jackson, MS, my hometown.  My parents still live near Jackson and my father, too, is an artist there.  I grew up surrounded by fine art.  Each painting that my parents own has a story.  They either know the artist or have some personal reason for selecting the work.  I have tried to continue this practice in my own home.  Jeff and I love folk art, so we have a collection from our artist friends, Jean Wattigny, Paul Schexnayder, Susan Carver, and the late Rosemary Bernard.  I enjoy showing guests how we inadvertently have the theme of three nuns running throughout our collected works.  We also discovered after the purchase of a large metal head by Pat Juneau that it strikes an uncanny resemblance to Maggie’s senior self-portrait.  A little bit on purpose we started a king and queen theme because we live in “the big white castle.” In the kitchen we have matching king and queen monkeys, metal art by Susan Carver.  When we were considering buying this castle, Maggie, our oldest, commented, “The walls are a big, blank, white canvas.”  And we have embraced that canvas with our collection.  The last few years we have had the opportunity to enhance our collection with a Melissa Bonin bayou scene and a photograph of Marjorie Brown Pierson’s, both of whom have been longtime family friends. 

Art has enriched my life and will continue to make connections between me and others. I wrote this poem about one of my father’s drawings.

My Father’s Drawing

Dots of ink and graphite rise in tension with the paper
to build a likeness of mother and child. 
The wild contrast of darks to light plays
in harmony creating a vision of love.
In the meantime, I grew up,
became a woman with children living away
from my father.  His letters come to me in thank you notes
for birthday gifts. Yet everyday I look at this drawing—
the dots of pointillism reach out from the wall
and grant me an audience with his graceful praise.