Notes from Public School - Day 67

As a writer, I’m a creative.

This means I have the ability or power to CREATE instead of just imitate.

I try to use this ability and power in my 4th grade classroom.

Oh, I work hard to teach the SC State Standards in ELA, Reading and Social Studies.

I work hard to help my students meet and exceed those standards on their end of the year SC Ready and SC Pass tests.

This is the ‘nuts and bolts’ part of my daily work.

But I also work hard to help my students…well, to help them be creatives.

I want them to develop the ability or power to CREATE instead of just imitate.

So you can imagine the smile on my face (and in my heart) when Jhoan walked up to me this morning and said, “Mr. Barton, look what I CREATED. Can you guess what it is?”

“Hmmm,” I said, “Is it a model of a boa constrictor that ate an elephant?”

For those of you who know the story The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exuperéy, you’ll get the reference.

For those of you who don’t know the story, please read it.

You’ll want to be the kind of person who knows the difference between a hat and a boa constrictor with an elephant in it’s belly.

And you’ll want to be the kind of person who knows that “it is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye,” as Saint-Exuperéy so eloquently says.

“I don’t know, Jhoan,” I admitted, for it is always good for teachers to admit to students that there is much we don’t know.

“Is it an airplane?”

“Nope,” he said. “It’s a BOOMERANG!”

“What?!” I said. “A BOOMERANG? And you made it yourself? Does it work?”

We stepped outside.

He threw his boomerang.

It whirled around the school yard.

And came back to him.

I was astonished.

That is a feeling I like to feel every day.

“Jhoan,” I said, “You are amazingly awesome and awesomely amazing! I’m thankful you are you.”

I can assure you that “How do you make a boomerang?” will not be on our end of the year, high stakes, SC Ready test.

But look into Jhoan’s eyes.

Look into his heart.

See what is essential.

Know that creativity goes a long way toward helping the world become a better place.

Notes from Public School - Day 66

I’m late for the Ted Lasso train.

As a matter of fact, I haven’t even bought the Ted Lasso train ticket yet.

But I will.

From the bits and pieces I’ve watched on YouTube, I can tell that it’s a Trevor kind of show.

I’m kind of like Ted Lasso.

Humbly and honorably so.

I’m an eternal optimist.

(I’m a Chicago Cubs fan, for heavens sake. That should tell you a lot about me.)

I try to see the good, even in the bad.

I try to see the belief, even in the fear.

I try to see the hope, even in the despair.

(And I hope others try to see those things in me in my own foibles, failures and tomfoolery.)

So even though I’ve never watched a complete episode of Ted Lasso, I have looked up his best quotes from the series.

I did this last night at 3:30 AM as I was waiting for the magic time of 4:02 AM, which was the peak of the beautiful, ingenious, wonderful eclipse the sun, moon and earth put on for us in the skies of South Carolina.

I found my favorite Ted Lasso quote in those quiet moments.

Here it is.

“I believe in hope. I believe in BELIEVE.”

Why is this my favorite Ted Lesso quote?

Well, the answer partly lies in one of my students.

Cintia.

Over half of my class this year is from Mexico, Central America and South America.

Let the record show…I LOVE each and every one of them.

Some of them have walked from the ends of the earth to make it into my classroom.

I would walk to the ends of the earth and back for them.

Truthfully, I’d do that for all of the students in my care.

But especially for them.

I know many of them have come nose to nose and heart to heart with economic devastation, war, sickness, xenophobia.

I know many of them have been hurt.

I know many of them are still hurting.

I know because I look closely and see them.

I know because I listen carefully and hear them.

I know.

And because I know, I’ll move heaven and earth to ease their pain, lighten their load, make life a little easier for them, help them take small steps to become all they want to be and do all they want to do in our world.

But, do you know what? (And I write this with tears in my eyes.)

These beautiful, ingenious, wonderful, courageous students who have so LITTLE give so MUCH.

Which brings me back to Cintia.

First thing this morning, she hugged me around my shoulder, looked up into my eyes, and held out her hand to me.

“Mr. Barton,” she said with a smile, a sonrisa, a sunrise kind of smile, “I know you love to write. So my mamí and I got this for you.”

She handed me the greatest gift a writer can get.

A notebook.

A pen.

Things so little.

Things so much.

Her Mom works 2 jobs to make ends meet.

They could have spent the money for my notebook and pen on food, rent, clothing, medicine.

But they spent it on me.

They gave me a gift.

They are a gift.

 

To me.

To the world.

Which brings me back to Ted Lasso.

I believe in hope, too, Ted. I believe in BELIEVE.

All because of Cintia and her family.

All because of days in public school.

Chapbook - Poems for Brown Eyed Girls

I.

I

look

into 

deep brown eyes 

and see the good earth. 

They are the color of the ground 

after my papí plows land in the first spring days.

In them I see the trees, for they are the color of bark in the early morning sun.

In them I see the sea, for they are the color of the water as it turns with sand and shells in the broken waves along the mid-day shore.

I love the plowed ground, walking through the cool dirt with bare feet; the bark of the trees, climbing the smooth branches, shirtless in the heat of the day; the sea, floating naked in the gently rocking waters of the ev’ning tide; her brown eyes

II.

Her brown eyes create a warm space inside of me.

Her brown eyes are the earth, the rows my abuelo and I walk every day to pick tomatoes and peaches from the fields and orchards on the Johns Island farms.

Her brown eyes are my abuela’s blanket, the one she sewed for me in the beautiful mountains of El Salvador.

Her brown eyes are warm, earthy and beautiful.

I see her brown eyes.

Her brown eyes see me.

III.

brown eyes, 

the color of the plowed ground 

in the countryside, 

the color of the smooth bark 

of the guava trees 

on the farms,

are beautiful

brown eyes  

grow 

humble beans 

that fill empty plates

like gifts

from hands

that picked them

brown eyes 

produce 

bountiful guavas 

that hang from trees 

like gifts 

from hands

that planted them

beautiful, brown eyes

IV.

The curves of her body were the gently rolling hills below the mountains where he lived as a boy. 

Her brown eyes were the deep soil of the farmland.

She was beautiful like the land, the yellow flowers he found as he roamed the countryside barefooted, the green trees that sparkled after heavy rain.

They listened to the sound of rain on the window of the hotel in the old part of the city. 

They made love to the flashing lightning and rolling thunder of the morning storm beside the sea.

V.

I Love the Handful of the Earth You Are

She lay

on her back,

he lay

between her knees, 

on the warm, wet

earth,

kissing her thighs softly, 

lips 

lightly

brushing 

skin.

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 closed

her eyes 

to the stars

and felt 

the light 

inside 

of her.

VI.

“To understand just one life, you have to swallow the world.” - Salmon Rushdie

She held his hand. 

“For someone so small and frail, 

he has big, strong hands,” she thought as her fingers intertwined his.

When you're a migrant kid, and you spend your life picking peaches and tomatoes in the hot South Carolina sun, your hands grow like the fruits and vegetables of summer, but the rest of your body withers away like the vines of fall.

He squeezed her hand, and she could feel the beating of his heart in her hand, and she felt it deeply inside of her, and she turned and looked at him.

He could feel tenderness deeply inside of him, as he looked into her brown eyes.

When you're a native kid in the Arctic, and you spend your life building and mending under the small sun of frozen days, your heart grows beautiful and mysterious, like the great bowhead whales under the ice, but the rest of you bends against the harsh, bitter winds of the ocean.

They both turned again and looked out over the water at the setting sun. 

Tears welled up in the corners of their eyes and dropped down their frozen cheeks into the icy Chukchi Sea.

For the first time in their lives, they knew human kindness, they felt the warmth of love.

VII.

Hold each other.

Kiss passionately,

tenderly.

Make love in colors, 

intense 

yellows, 

reds, 

blues

softer 

oranges, 

purples, 

greens 

beauty

Hold each other 

closely, 

come

and become

VIII.

 

The ground

rocks me

gently,

back and forth,

up and down,

round and round,

arms,

legs,

body,

lips.

I pour myself

into the ground,

heart,

soul,

mind,

body.

Nothing

is left

but colors,

breath,

life.

Everything.

brown eyes

I

look

into 

deep brown eyes 

and see the good earth. 

They are the color of the ground 

after my papí plows land in the first spring days.

In them I see the trees, for they are the color of bark in the early morning sun.

In them I see the sea, for they are the color of the water as it turns with sand and shells in the broken waves along the mid-day shore.

I love the plowed ground, walking through the cool dirt with bare feet; the bark of the trees, climbing the smooth branches, shirtless in the heat of the day; the sea, floating naked in the gently rocking waters of the ev’ning tide; her brown eyes

- Trevor Scott Barton, Fibonacci Poems, 2021

Notes from Public School - Day 63

My work as a teacher and a writer is a lot like the work of a farmer.

The hours I spend in front of my students and in front of my writing notebook is like the hours a farmer spends walking down newly plowed rows broadcasting seeds.

You teach and write and plant with great courage and deep hope.

You stand eye to eye with -  

economic poverty

adverse childhood experiences

learning disabilities

self-doubt

a blank page

solitude

rewrites

weather

insects

blight

You live heart to heart with -

the ‘a-ha’ moment

kickball

trust

satisfaction

the finished story

the acceptance letter

acclamation

sunrise

sunset

harvest

I wrote the small story below.

Today, I’m the farmer.

Small story -

As I've already told you, my poppa is a farmer. 

I’m looking carefully out the window.

I see him kneeling in the garden, planting the seedlings.

His skin is the color of the newly plowed rows. 

Sweat is dripping off his forehead into the dirt, mixing with the sun and soil, nourishing the plants so they can grow. 

When comes into the house at sunset, he'll smell of the humble smell of the land.

His heart is faithful and soft. 

It's a beautiful Better Boy tomato swaying slowly in the whispering winds of southern summer skies.

His soul is bright and gentle.

It’s a yellow ear of sweet corn wrapping itself gently in tender husks, protecting itself from the searing sun and woolly worms.

His mind is persistent and broad.

It’s an engine running a plow, working through problems, fixing anything and everything, accepting me, and allowing me to grow as the land accepts the seed and allows it to grow.

His strength is helping and enduring.

It’s the Farmall tractor we borrow from a neighbor, a tractor that keeps him from struggling behind a mule and a plow.

Yep, he's a farmer.

He’s a person of the land.

He is.

No Human Is Illegal - This I Believe

Kids are observant.

They watch what you do more than listen to what you say.

The students at my school often ask me about two artifacts - one in my classroom and one on my lanyard.

The artifact in my classroom is a picture of a handshake between my friend Momadu and I when I lived in Mali in west Africa.

Kids look at it closely.

“Hmmm,” say students like Jeremiah, “I notice your hand is white and your friend’s hand is black.”

“Yep,” I respond, “We are good friends.”

And in that moment, I become a civil rights worker.

“Mr. Barton believes we should all be equal, no matter the color of our skin,” they tell each other.

I do.

The other artifact on my lanyard is a small button  that says, “No human is illegal.”

Kids look at it closely, too.

“You really believe that, Mr. Barton?” ask students like Daniel, whose family came to Berea from the farms and fields of Mexico.

“Yep,” I answer. “I’m glad you’re here and I’m here for you.”

And in that moment I become a human rights worker.

“Mr. Barton cares for everybody, no matter where they come from,” they tell each other.

I do.

So I walk out of my school building this afternoon a humble teacher.

And so much more.

Notes from Public School - Day 62

"Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me."

I was sitting outside on the playground bench wiping the tears of a child when this old saying came to mind. 

It isn’t true, of course. 

The tearful child was a student undergoing an evaluation process to help us understand why she couldn't read. 

One of her classmates was climbing the ladder of the slide and yelled out, "Hey! You’re retarded!"

Ouch.

Words can hurt us. 

They can break our hearts.

I frame my classroom rules in a small set of positive statements. 

The most important rule is "Speak with kind words." 

From the first day of school until the last, our catchphrase is, "We use words to build up instead of tear down. We use words to help and not to hurt." 

My former students can recite this mantra word for word. 

I hope they hear it in their sleep. 

I hope they remember it for as long as they live.

After the playground incident, we made our way inside. 

I sat in my rocking chair.

My students joined me crisscross applesauce in a circle on the carpet.

"What is the most important rule in our classroom?”I asked.

They answered enthusiastically, "We use words to build up instead of tear down. We use words to help and not to hurt!"

"Why?" I asked.

They sat in thoughtful silence. 

This was unusual for that group of 9 and 10 year olds.

I used that silence to introduce a story that would illuminate the power of words.

I held up the picture book Through My Eyes by Ruby Bridges. 

We started a picture walk by looking at the front cover.

"This is Ruby Bridges. This is a picture of her when she was 6-years-old and in the first grade. She was younger than you. She was a special person. She was the first African-American child to go to the William Frantz Public School in New Orleans, Louisiana in 1960. All of the other students at that school were white. The parents of the white students didn't want Ruby or any other African-American child to go to the school. They believed white children were better than African-American children. You know what I think about that. No person is better than another person because of the color of their skin, the country they were born in, or the things they believe. I detest any ideology that states one person is superior to another person. We are all human beings. We have hearts, souls, minds and bodies and each one of us is THE MOST VALUABLE person on this green earth. So I disagree with those parents’ beliefs about Ruby Bridges. I disagree with them with all of my heart. I’m pulling for Ruby.”

We stopped on page 25 and looked at the famous Norman Rockwell painting called The Problem We All Live With. There’s Ruby and three U.S. marshals. The picture shows them being pelted by tomatoes while walking by the N-word spray-painted on a wall. We talked about a group of women called "the cheerleaders" who came and screamed words that tried to tear down Ruby.

"How would it feel to walk in Ruby's shoes?”

One student’s response was more powerful than the rest.

She didn't answer my question with words. 

Instead, she gently placed her arm around my tearful student’s shoulder. 

In that moment, I knew the words had become building, healing actions in our classroom.

The opportunity to get to know one another—that’s the first step in learning to use words to build up and help instead of to tear down and hurt.

I love that.