Tuesday, September 17, 2019

Earth/La Tierra

Earth

I fall
to the warm, 
wet earth.

The earth 
rocks me,
gently 
and firmly,
as if 
I am being rocked 
back and forth, 
up and down, 
around and around 
by arms 
and legs 
and body 
and lips. 

I pour myself 
into the earth
until there is nothing 
left 
but colors 
and breath 
and life.


La Tierra

me caigo
al calor
tierra mojada

La tierra
me mece
suavemente
y firmemente
como si
Estoy siendo sacudido
de ida y vuelta,
arriba y abajo,
Vueltas y vueltas
por brazos
y piernas
y el cuerpo
y labios.

Me sirvo
en la tierra
hasta que no haya nada
izquierda
pero colores
y aliento
y vida.


- Trevor Scott Barton, poems for a brown eyed girl, 2019 



Notes from public school - day 20

This afternoon, I discovered a flower growing through a crack in the asphalt.

“The students at my school are like these flowers,” I thought.

Because many of them come from families in economic poverty, they live in some broken places.

Still, though, they grow.

They are beautiful.

Like the flower growing through a crack in the asphalt.

They remind me of this small story I wrote.

They remind me to keep looking at and listening to the stories of their lives.

“They're there and they're beautiful and they're a'waitin' for a crack so they can grow and be seen and make the world a better place.”

Yep, that’s them.


                  Flowers in Broken Places

White and cold. Everything was covered in cold white. The fields that provided for us. The trees that shaded us and gave us lumber to sell. My Poppas hunched shoulders as he trudged his way to the barn to milk the cows. All were blanketed in snow. 

It was the coldest stretch of days and the heaviest and deepest of snows that the midlands had seen in a hundred years. Momma had her arm around me as we snuggled close together and watched Poppa disappear into the blinding whiteness of the pouring snow.

- My, my...look at all that snow, Carter...look at all that snow.

- It's turnin' ever'thin' white. It's beautiful.

- Yes, sweetheart, it is beautiful.

- It makes ever'thin' look so bright and clean and new.

- Yes, it does...it does. But, you know what? I like to think about what's underneath the snow.

- But there's nothin' but frozen ground and bare limbs underneath the snow.

- And don't forget there's a Poppa under it, too!

- Ha! So why do you like to think 'bout things like that, things that're frozen and bare?

- Well, it's 'cause of som'thin' that happened to me when I was a little girl about your age. Ev'ry Sat'dy afternoon, my Daddy and Momma would take me and your Aunts and Uncles into town. We didn't own our own farm like your Daddy and I do now, so we lived in what was called a 'sharecroppers shack' on Mr. Wilson's farm. That shack was a dark, bare place that was too small for a family of nine. We all worked so hard on that farm, but on Sat'dy afternoons Mr. Wilson let us outta work to go to town. In town, ev'rythin' looked like it does now under this blanket of snow - white, clean, and new.

The som'thin' that happened that I wanna tell you 'bout is this. We were walkin' down the sidewalk, Daddy in front, Momma behind him, and the seven of us chil'ren all in a row from the tallest to the shortest. My goodness, we did look like ducks in a row, we chil'ren did. A young man and a young woman, a white young man and woman, came a'walkin' toward us arm in arm. As is the custom, we stepped off the sidewalk to let the white folks pass. I looked down at the ground, as I was supposed to do when a white man passed me, and it was then that I saw a sup'risin' thing.

The cement sidewalk had a small crack in it, and out of that broken place grew a flower, a tiny flower.  Even though I was a'wearin' my Sat'dy dress, I knelt down on the ground close to the flower so I could cup my hands around it and really see it. It was the most beautiful flower I had ever seen in my life. It's still the most beautiful flower I ever saw. Its petals were red and yella, its stem was green, and the center a'holdin' its seeds was black. The yella was the color of the sun in the early mornin', the red was the color of the sun in the late ev'nin', the green was the color of the april fields at dawn and dusk, and the black was 'zactly the color of black folks like us's skin. And there was that flower, a'growin' through the hard, white concrete that covered the earth!

That's why I like to think 'bout things that are covered up, Carter, 'bout things that're underneath. Oft'times, you cain't see them but they're there and they're beautiful and they're a'waitin' for a crack so they can grow and be seen and make the world a better place.




Monday, September 16, 2019

Notes from public school - day 19

“Listening is an act of love.”

So says Dave Isay, the founder of StoryCorps.

StoryCorps is a project that provides a space for people to listen to each other.

The project travels around the country in an Airstream trailer and recording equipment so people can sit face to face (ear to ear, really) and ask each other questions and listen to each other’s stories.

The recordings are moving, sometimes so much so that I have to pull my car over to the side of the road to cry the deep, deep tears of the heart.

I’m thinking about Isay’s precept every day this school year.

How can I be a good listener to my students?

It’s tough, sometimes.

I have a student who barely talks at all.

She never raises her hand during classroom discussion.

She never speaks unless spoken to (and doesn’t speak more than a sentence or above a whisper, even then).

She always finds her way to the end of our line, whether we’re going to related arts, lunch, recess, or the bus.

She is a quiet kid.

Since I haven’t been able to listen much to her yet (I believe my teacher magic will get through to her by Christmas), I listened to her last years teacher to learn a little bit more about her.

“I did a project where I asked my students, ‘If you had a million dollars, what would you do with it?’ She wrote, ‘I would help my dad come to me from Mexico.’”

There it is.

Now I know why she is a person of long and deep silences.

She loves someone and there is a wall, figuratively and perhaps soon literally, between them.

Though she is the quiet kid, and though she is carrying this heavy thing in her heart, I wish you could spend the day with her as a teacher as I do.

Her deep brown eyes are full of questions and curiosity, the kinds of questions and thinking that push the world forward and make it better for everyone.

She works so hard to be the best person she can be and do the best work she can do.

Her words are few, but she has listening ears and a big heart.

She is like my little character Hilcias in a book I am writing about, well, about listening.

I hope you can hear her.


                                 Listening
Hilcias had small ears. Well, they were less than small. They were minute. He used to be self conscious about them. When he stepped into a classroom for the first time, his glasses slipped off one of those ears and hung crooked across his face. His ears weren't big enough to hold them.

"We come from a family with little ears but big hearts," said his abuelo one day as Hilcias was moping down a row of tomatoes, thinking about the laughter of his classmates. “Good thing you don't talk. You can use your brain for listening. Your ears sure won't help you much.”
As he grew older and fell in love with whales, though, he discovered that blue whales, which are the biggest animals to have ever lived on earth, have ears the size of the point of a pencil. 

"The blue whales know how I feel," he thought. And that made him feel better.

Hilcias really did have a big heart. 

Literally. 

One day, when he was a toddler, he fell at the end of a row of tomatoes in his abuelo's garden and bruised his ribs on a jagged rock. His abuelo and his mami took him to the free medical clinic. His abuelo wrapped his arms around him and placed his giant calloused hand on his chest to keep him still. He took quick, shallow breaths because if he breathed slowly and deeply his whole body hurt. 

When they looked at the x-ray, the doctor exclaimed, "His ribs are bruised but, my God, look at the size of his heart! I've never seen a heart so big in a child so small." 

An echocardiogram confirmed it.

"It's rare in children, "said the doctor, "But his heart is enlarged because his heart muscle isn't squeezing well and his heart grew bigger to compensate. The good news is, we can treat him. He can lead a nearly normal life. He'll just have to use his heart in different ways than other folks."

Later, with a book by his bedside, his abuelo said, "I want you to have listening ears and a big heart, my grandson, so it seems like nature is helping my wishes come true. Don't you worry. I'll always love you just the way you are. You're perfect to me and for the world."

His abuelo kissed him on the forehead.

It comforted him again when he learned that a blue whale has the largest heart on earth. It's as big as a Volkswagen Beetle.

"I have a heart like a blue whale," he thought.

And that made him smile.



Sunday, September 15, 2019

Toughness, Tenderness

She had been there at the mass rally at the university the week before the struggle began to overthrow the regime. 
He had been there, too. 

Their voices joined together with the voices of hundreds and thousands of students, campesinos, professors, and rebel leaders and rumbled across the night sky to the furthest reaches of the island.

 "We ask for a fair price for beans and rice! We ask for schools for our children! We ask for care from doctors and hospitals when we are sick! We ask for work so we can build up these things for our people because we need them to live...we need them to live!"

It was then that he had seen her for the first time. 

Her fist was clenched and raised to the sky, her hair hung down along her back, her brown eyes glistened under the lights of the field where they shouted and sang their hopes and dreams for their country, for their poor families, for their people. 

Out of all the people there around him, she was the one...the one his eyes could not leave...the one his heart could not forget. 

He knew then that their courage and compassion would draw them together and bond them as friends and lovers. 

In those first days, he thought of what it might feel like to be with her, to feel her hunger for his body, for her to feel his hunger for hers...to be with her, to hear the stories of her childhood, to share the stories of his...to be with her as they were together now, naked and holding each other, protecting each other, loving each other.



Friday, September 13, 2019

The Human Face

Here is a small piece of fiction.

It’s kind of about me and why I’m a writer.

A writer of the human face.


                           The Human Face


Sometimes as he wrote light glowed around his bare work desk.

He used words to fight the loneliness of the farmers. They gave their hearts, souls, minds and bodies to the land day after day, month after month, year after year, until they became the dust from which they were made. 

He used words to fight the loneliness of the workers. They gave their hearts, souls, minds and bodies to the factories day after day, month after month, year after year until they became the metal and grease themselves.

He used words to fight the loneliness of the servants, They gave their hearts, minds, souls and bodies to their patróns day after day, month after month, year after year until they became the rags and the basins from which they served.

He used words to fight for subsistence, enough food to stay alive, barely...for shelter, enough wood and tin to stay alive, barely...for song, enough music to stay alive, barely...for nothing and yet for everything.

Sometimes he used words to flee the loneliness...his own loneliness, his fear of losing Gabby, his fear of losing the old priest, his fear of losing the old doctor.

He used words as colors and his pen as a brush. 

He painted the human faces of those he loved, in hope that they would live beyond his years, in faith that they would be with him, in love. 

As he painted the human faces he wept, a weeping from a place deep inside of him, a weeping from the eyes of the heart. 

He painted Gabby, her brown eyes filled with life and kindness, her black hair hanging down to her shoulders, her brown skin in nakedness beautiful, so beautiful, her hands and feet calloused and compassionate, her smile for him.

He painted the old priest...his tattered clothes from so much giving...his tarnished crucifix - the first gift given to him at his ordination into the priesthood - his reminder that Christ is in each and every person he sees each and every day...his hunched shoulders from so much praying...his weathered face so full of love.

He painted the old doctor...the sparkle in his clear blue eyes...the deep wrinkles of concern on his face...the broken hands that heal.

And sometimes he used words to hide from the loneliness. He would hold Gabby, hold her, and whisper, "I love you.”

Thursday, September 12, 2019

Handful of Earth

Later that night, she woke and thought about the question she asked to her Abuela, she remembered her husband Josef.

He was a person who could see clearly and feel deeply. 

His clear sight and big heart led him to join the Revolution, to leave his work as a teacher, to leave the city...to make his way to the mountains to join the rebels and become a part of the resistance  that would give the land back to the people again.

Gone five months, she had not heard from him. 

This was the time she missed him most, the times she woke in the middle of the night with a question or a feeling to work out in her mind and heart.

She closed her eyes and remembered the night before he left for the mountains. 

She laid naked on her back and he laid between her knees. 

He kissed her softly on her thighs, his lips and breath against her skin. 

With the kisses he recited a poem from Pablo Neruda. 

Amo el trozo de tierra que tú eres,
porque de las praderas planetarias
otro estrella no tengo tú repites
la multíplicación del universo.

I love the handful of the earth you are.
Because of it's meadows, vast as a planet,
I have no other star. You are my replica
of the multiplying universe.

She opened her eyes again and stared into the darkness and felt a small hope deep inside of her.



Soil

Soil


A surprising thing happened on the day he was born. 

He was wrapped in a blanket, snuggled by Momma’s side. 

His wide, brown eyes were open. 

He was as still as our farm pond on a July afternoon. 

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 times. 

Was my brother talking with the lightning bug? 

Was such a thing possible? 

The lightning bug took flight and flew out the window.

When he was three, we were sitting together under the old apple tree in the far corner of our yard.

- Carver, be very quiet, look very clos’ly, and listen very care’fly, okay?

- ‘Kay!

- What color is the grass?

- Gween!

- Yep! Do you know what's special about the color green?

- Gween is special?

- Yeah, it's special. Look under you. Look out over Poppa's fields. Look up in the trees. Green is under our feet. Green is all around us. Green is over us. Green is everywhere.

- Gween is evweewheyah.

- Uh huh.

I put my hands on the ground, pushed my fingers into the soil, and pulled away a patch of grass.

- What is this?

- It's duwt.

- Well, really, it's soil. Poppa taught me the difference between dirt and soil and now I want to teach it to you, okay?

- 'kay.

- The word “dirt” comes from the old, old word “drit”, which means “excrement”. “Excrement” is just a big word that means “poop”.

- Poop!

- Ha! Dirt is the bottom part of the ground. It's used to make a road or a floor.

The word “soil” comes from the old, old words “solium” and “solum”, which mean “seat” and “ground”.

Soil is the top part of the ground. It helps plants grow. It's black or dark brown. It's made up of helpful things.

Are you lis’nin’?

- Yep!

- Well, I want you to remember that ev’rybody in the world is like the green grass. We’re all the same. We all have hearts and minds and souls and bodies. No person is better than another. We’re all good and we’re all green on the inside.

- ‘Kay! We’ew aw good and aw gween on th’ inside!

- Yeah, but if it’s hot ev’ry day and it don’t rain for weeks and weeks, the grass gets brittle and ugly. Some people are like that on the outside. Life just dries them up and they do ugly things. You gonna’ see them and hear them when we go to town with Momma and Poppa. They gonna’ tell us that we’re dirt, that we’re only good for being used, that we’re no better’n “poop.” Ev’ry time that happ’ns, I want you to remember that we’re not dirt. I want you to reach out and hold my hand, and when you feel my hand I want you to remember that we’re soil, that we he’p the earth grow, that we’re good in the world. Can you do that? Can you hold my hand? Can you remember that? Can you remember that we’re soil?

Carver reached out his toddling hand to me. I took it gently into my own little hand. 

We were light. 

We were green. 

We were soil. 

We were brothers.