Notes From Public School - Day 102

Here’s a flash fiction story.

There’s much in it, imho, about being a teacher…a writer…a human being.

I hope it’s as meaningful for you to read as it was for me to write.

The Boxer

He reached out his hand, battered and bruised from the fight, and found his mamí’s hand to hold. 

He tried to bend his fingers around hers, but they were too stiff and sore to move. 

She turned her hand around and opened it so he could rest his palm on hers.

He took a slow, deep breath through his mouth into his tired lungs. 

He couldn’t breathe in through his nose. 

His opponent had broken it in the second round with a left hook and it was stuffed with packing gauze. 

“Oh well,” he thought, “I’m just a farm kid and a boxer. My face doesn’t matter. Only my heart and my hands do.” 

He breathed out through his swollen, cracked lips and sighed.

Something happened then that had never happened to him before and that would change his life forever after. 

As he held his mamí’s hand there in the simple room beside the boxing ring, her eyes became his eyes, her ears his ears, and her heart his heart.

He saw the world as she saw it, heard the world as she heard it and felt the world as she felt it when she was a girl.

This is what he saw, heard and felt:

She held her papa’s hand.

They walked together by a large window of a hotel restaurant on the main street of the town. 

Her papa stepped off of the sidewalk, took his threadbare, tattered hat into his hand, held it to his chest and bowed his head in silence as the owner of a large sugar plantation passed by and opened the door to the hotel.

The powerful man sat down with his wife and daughter at a table by the glass window looking out onto the street. 

The girl appeared to be Maria’s age. 

She was dressed in the most beautiful dress Maria had ever seen. 

She held a silver fork in her right hand. 

On that fork was a piece of steak cooked to perfection by the finest chef in the town.

That morning, Maria had eaten a single corn tortilla and a spoon of refried beans.

That would be the same thing she would eat that evening.

The season was the time between the harvest of last years crop and the harvest of this years crop.

The already poor family was now desperately poor and hungry.

For a moment, the girl’s eyes behind the glass met Maria’s eyes, but the girl quickly looked away. 

Maria felt the pain of her hunger. 

It was deep and aching in her empty stomach and moved out as weakness into her arms and legs.

It moved out as despair into her mind and heart.

 A lump formed in her throat.

She closed her eyes and a tear rolled down her cheek and onto the dust and dirt of the sidewalk.

Tomás, as he touched his mamí’s hand, felt that pain of hunger, felt the emptiness so deeply in his own stomach and heart that a tear formed in his own eye and rolled down his cheek and onto the dust and dirt of the floor of the dark, quiet room.

He knew then, so clearly, why his mamí worked the fields in bare feet, why she wore the same dress day after day and year after year. 

He knew why she took so little of the food she prepared for her family. 

She did these things because she never wanted her children to be hungry as she had been hungry then.

In that moment he realized how much his mamí loved him.

He realized how much he loved her.

Notes From Public School - Day 101

Here is a Missionary/Teacher/Writer poem

You should see

my baobab tree.

Twice as tall

as I am now,

it’s trunk 

is as big 

as my leg.

My friends

tell me

they think 

about me

every time

they see

my tree.

I hope

my tree

is my life

in Mali,

Berea Elementary School,

and my writing table.

Branch for shade,

Bark for rope,

leaves for cure,

fruit for food,

the baobab tree

is strong and good.

May I be

my tree

for you.

Notes From Public School - Day 100

Today was the 100th day of school.

Wow.

In some ways it seems like only the 10th day.

In other ways it already seems like the 1,000th.

Does time ever do you that way?

Well, it was a good 100th day in Room 414.

We’re reading the illustrated book Rosa by Nikki Giovanni and Bryan Collier.

Do you know that book.

It is as beautiful, ingenious, wonderful and courageous a book as she was a beautiful, ingenious, wonderful and courageous person.

I loved the moments I stopped reading.

Just as music is found in the spaces between the notes, so wonder is found in the spaces between the pages of a great read aloud.

I stopped reading after these words -

“You better make it easy on yourself!” Blake yelled.

“Why do you pick on us?” Mrs. Parks asked with that quiet strength of hers.

“I’m going to call the police!” Blake threatened.

“Do what you must,” Mrs. Parks quietly replied. She was not frightened. She was not going to give in to that which was wrong.

There was a profound wonder in the silence.

These kinds of moments make teaching fun.

“What do you think ‘quiet strength’ is?” I asked.

I love questions.

At first, my students were at a loss for words.

We are all used to the idea that ‘strong’ means ‘loud.’

Then Cintia answered in her quiet, strong Honduran voice, “I think it means your words are powerful.”

“I think it means you fight, but fight nicely,” said Josiah in his loud, sincere voice.

As a class we went on to talk about how we can confront bullies - whether they be people or laws or customs.

“We can be like Rosa Parks,” I said “And look the bully in the eyes and quietly, strongly say, ‘No. No person is better than another. No.”

Later in the day, as we were waiting on the last bus and car riders to be called, I was standing outside my classroom door with Daniel and Jhoan.

Daniel looked up above the classroom door and saw I picture I placed there of a Black kids hand holding a sign that says 14th Amendment and has “No person is better than another” across the front of it.

“Hey,” said Daniel, “I’ve never seen that picture before. That’s what you’ve been teaching us this year.”

It was one of my proudest moments as a teacher.

When a student ‘sees’ and ‘understands’ - well, that is what teachers live for.

Thanks Rosa for showing us the way.

Notes From Public School - Day 99

Dust

Small clouds of dust

rise

from the dry, hard 

ground.

Tiny millet seeds

fall

from the gourd

into hollowed holes.

Bare feet

step

over the stony field,

calloused,

rooted

in the soil,

growing out 

of the ground.

“God

formed people

from the dust

of the ground.”

I understand.

I am

a person

working, stooping

planting

to help

my family

live

in this world.

I rise

slowly.

I see

you.

Do you see

me?

- Trevor Scott Barton, Left Foot Poems, 2022

Notes From Public School - Day 98

As a part of a larger project celebrating the life and work of MLK, we’re writing an essay centered around the question, “What could I do to make the world a better place?”

I have a new student.

His name is Juan.

He is a newcomer from Colombia.

“Juan asked if he can answer the question in Spanish,” said Johan, Juan’s table mate and translator for these his first days and months in a new land and a new language.

Johan is also from Colombia.

He has been in the US for three years and is fluent in both Spanish and English.

“Of course,” I said. 

I smiled at Juan and gave him a thumbs up.

He went to work writing in his social studies notebook and typing on his Chromebook.

When he was done, he sent this paragraph to me.

“Lo que haría para cambiar el mundo sería a yudar a los indigentes ayudar a los necesitados haria fundaciones y le bajaría los impuestos y ayudar a los perritos.”

Monica, our kind attendance clerk and my friend (who is from Ecuador) helped me translate his words.

“What I would do to change the world is help the homeless, help the needy, make foundations and lower taxes and help the puppies.”

Wow.

His words give me hope for the world.

He gives me hope for the world.

I think MLK would be honored to have Juan following in his footsteps.

After Monica helped me translate Juan’s words, she said, “I have a gift for you.”

She gave me the cup below.

You know what?

The best words and the best gifts and the best people come from the heart, too.

Notes From Public School - Day 96

Today, my 4th graders and I listened to MLK’s “I Have A Dream” speech on Stanford University’s freedomsring website (https://freedomsring.stanford.edu/?view=Speech)

We minded our LC’s, which simply (or complexly) means we looked closely and listened carefully at/to the words of the speech.

We worked on an MLK project where we read Martin’s Big Words written by Doreen Rappaport and illustrated by Bryan Collier as a read aloud; wrote a response to the question, “Which one of Dr. King’s big words is the most meaningful to YOU (love, peace, everyone, courage, together, dream, freedom, hope)?”; and created a picture of a t-shirt that represents our dream for the world.

Look at the answer Nashly gave to the question. “The big word of Dr. King that is most meaningful to me is everyone,” she wrote, “Because Dr. King said ‘be together.’”

Look at the picture of the t-shirt Cintia created. “We Want Freedom,” she drew.

“Who is someone we need to march for? What is something we need to march for?” I asked my students in the spirit of MLK, for the spirit of MLK.

I think the answer to those questions are somewhere in the life and work of these two 9-year-old girls from Honduras.

The Holy City

I walk along 

Queen Street 

into the middle 

of downtown Charleston 

to the waterfront park 

at the harbor.  

I amble

the cobbled streets

past Poogan's Porch, 

Mother Emmanuel,

and Meeting Street,

the Holy City.

I see tourists huddle

around tour guides 

hearing stories 

of places 

and people 

of the old town.

Patrons of pubs wobble

with their arms around

 each others shoulders 

enjoying their pints of beer,

their glasses of wine.

Revelers of restaurants huddle

In small groups 

together

waiting for shrimp and grits,

low country boil,

she crab soup.

A young Black man sits

in solitude 

on top of a table 

on the harbor walkway 

weaving flowers and crosses 

out of sweet grass.

Sixty some odd years ago,

J. Judge Waties Waring 

heard

Thurgood Marshall’s plea

and was despised 

by high society folk.

He was offered 

a one way train ticket 

out of the state 

by the South Carolina legislature

and told

never to return.

I still ask 

the old questions - 

What does it mean 

to be just?

How can I weave a 

more human world?

Dum spiro spero

While I breathe, I hope

- Trevor Scott Barton, The Left Foot, 2022

Peaceful Hero

Aspire not to have more but to be more - Oscar Romero

Oscar Romero was the archbishop of San Salvador in El Salvador from 1977 - 1980.

The humble, kind, courageous follower of Jesus was assassinated in March of 1980 while celebrating Mass at the chapel of Divine Providence Hospital.

He was martyred because he used his voice for the voiceless and used his heart and hands and feet to serve the poor.

He is my hero.

Here is some work I did about him for The Southern Poverty Law Center and their Learning for Justice project.

May we all be peaceful heroes like him.

https://www.learningforjustice.org/classroom-resources/lessons/peaceful-heroes

Notes From Public School - Day 95

When I was a kid, I loved Saturday mornings.

Why?

Because I could get up before sunrise (much to my parents chagrin, who had to sing, dance and blink my room light on and off a hundred times on Mondays through Fridays to get me up for school).

And because I could watch Schoolhouse Rock!

Did you watch it, too?

My favorite was The Preamble to the Constitution (https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=RnVmIrAiQB8)

It still is.

I memorized the Preamble by memorizing the song.

I show it to my students.

I sing it to them!

And I hope very much it goes from our brains to our hearts to our hands to our feet to our words.

WE the people…establish JUSTICE…promote the GENERAL WELFARE…secure the blessings of LIBERTY.

Wow.

What ideals.

The poet Amanda Gorman wrote in her poem “The Hill We Climb” that, “Somehow, we’ve weathered and witnessed A nation that isn’t broken, but simply unfinished.”

What hope.

What grace.

I hope I’m helping my 9 and 10 year olds (and myself) work toward fixing our nation, finishing our nation, every day.

Today, during eLearning, one of my students, Garrett, sang the Preamble for 20 4th graders and for me.

“My palms were sweating as I sang it, Mr. Barton,” he said.

I’m so proud of him!

It was awesomely amazing and amazingly awesome.

Is he a person who will fix and finish our nation?

As all of those students and I clapped for him, I couldn’t help but think yes.

That all of these Kids will.

That all of us will.

Try.

That’s why I teach.

That’s why I write.

That’s why I hope.

Notes From Public School - Day 94

This is what we say to our students as they walk through the doors of our school, our classrooms and our hearts.

“You are a poem.”

“Eres un poema.”

“The poem is you.”

And, you know what?

The poem is us.

The poem is all of us.

Notes From Public School - Day 93

One of the most important parts of being a teacher is being a learner.

Each year in my classroom and at my writing table humbly teaches me this truth I’m learning.

That’s why I love the writer’s workshop I’m part of at SC State University.

By learning I’m getting better at teaching.

This is good for me, and good for my 4th graders.

This evening in my writing workshop, I worked on figurative language.

I studied an article from the Poetry Foundation on metaphors, similes, hyperbole, sarcasm. paraleipsis (drawing attention to something by pretending not to draw attention to it - think, “Not to mention, everyone in school saw it, too) and aposiopesis (leaving a thought unfinished deliberately - think, “I can’t even.”).

This is the kind of fun a word nerd, or just a plain, run-of-the-mill nerd like me, has of a snow laden afternoon.

After studying the article, I got to work on an ode in the style of Pablo Neruda, who is one of my literary heroes.

Since I am writing a novel with the themes of migration and the beloved community, I wrote “An Ode to a Foot in the Field.”

Here it is in rough draft.

It’s definitely a kind of work like my grandpa did in his workshop.

I’m just tinkering with a pen and a notebook instead of Duck Tape and baling wire. 

Notes From Public School - Day 92

Today is a snow day.

Well, it used to be called a snow day.

Now it’s called an eLearning day.

Like the mixed precipitation that left Greenville covered in a blanket of snow, sleet and freezing rain, our students are getting a mix of Google Slides work and Google Live meets to keep them thinking and learning on this frozen day.

And, just so you know, my teacher friends are building in time in the day for them to get out, go sledding, build a snowman, have a snowball fight, and enjoy the wintry wonder of snow in the south.

For one of my students, my new student from Colombia, this is the first time he has ever seen snow!

Think about that.

Beauty and wonder for sure.

As I look out my window at the snow covered ground, I remember how my mom used to cover my tennis shoes with Bunny Bread bags that she saved from the bread she bought at the day old store at the Bunny Bread bakery in Taylors.

I’m smiling.

And my heart is warmed.

As my students are thinking and learning (and playing, of course), I’m thinking and learning, too.

I’m working on my story for my writer’s workshop at SC State.

A compadre asked me to revise a stream of consciousness piece I wrote about a woman with bruised, bleeding, broken feet.

Here it is.

I hope you look closely and listen carefully to it…and see and hear my heart.

MLK Day 2022 - My Writing Hero Ida B. Wells

On this day, MLK Day 2022, I celebrate my writing hero Ida B. Wells (https://www.nps.gov/people/idabwells.htm)

She wrote to promote social change.

She wrote to punish injustice.

She wrote with a pen that was mightier than the sword.

She wrote.

I reach out my open hand, receive her courageous pen, and keep on writing.

 

Thank you Ida B. Wells.

Your brilliant storytelling made the world a little more human and led it a step forward toward the beloved community some of us are trying to build.

Lightning Bugs

One of my heroes is George Washington Carver (https://www.tuskegee.edu/support-tu/george-washington-carver)

On this day, MLK Day 2022, this story is for him.

“Hey little lightning bugs.”

At the sound of Carver's voice, the lightning bugs  in a mason jar on the table beside our beds began flashing their lights until a warm glow filled our room.

He was that kind of kid.

A special kind of kid.

As a matter of fact, a special thing happened on the day he was born. 

Momma swaddled him in an old, tattered blanket, and snuggled him by her side. 

His big brown eyes were wide open.

He was as still as the water in a summer pond.

A lightning bug came into the room with the breeze and lit gently on his nose. 

I watched in wonder as he blinked his eyes four short blinks and the lightning bug blinked it’s light four short times. 

He blinked his eyes three long blinks and it blinked its light three long blinks back. 

Was my baby brother communicating with the lightning bug? 

Was such a thing possible? 

The lightning bug took flight and flew out the window from which it came.

When he was three years old, he was laying on his back underneath the afternoon shade of the old apple tree in the back corner of our yard. 

I was laying beside him, looking up into the branches heavy with green apples, a color green we can't rightly make with our paints and thinners but that God seems to be able to create with a stroke from a divine brush and palette. 

I was sharing my thoughts about this with Carver, talking quietly and circling the pad of my thumb around and around his chubby cheek, when a lightning bug lit on his nose and flashed its soft yellow light three times. 

His eyes turned inward toward the lightning bug and blinked three times, as if he was sharing a soft light of his own that was yet unknown to human heart and mind but could only be perceived by the natural world around him. 

I knew then that he was special, the kind of person who comes into the world every once in a while to help it and make it a better place.

from trevor’s encyclopedia of things lost and found

Mujer Fuerte

Two important parts of being a writer are looking closely and listening carefully and showing what you see and hear. 

These are especially important when you are trying to show all that’s human in the people around you.

Here’s an example after meeting with a mamí of one of my Latinx students today.

Her arms and legs are the branches of a tree, the branches close to the trunk, thick and strong, able to carry heavy things. 

Her hair is the dark sky at new moon. 

Her brown eyes are the deep earth, yet they carry the soft light of stars at night.

The wrinkles around her eyes aren’t the wrinkles of age and time, but the wrinkles of worry and hardship, lines that shouldn’t be on the face of someone so young. 

Her voice is very quiet. 

She says little, but when she does say something, she says a lot. 

Her hands and feet are calloused and worn, yet gentle and warm, against the life she lives, and for the life she gives.

She has a beautiful heart.

She has an ingenious mind.

She is a wonderful person.

She is a courageous woman.

She is a hero.

She is human.