The Human Face

I Write the Human Face

I write the human face, with hope it will simply live, with faith 

it will simply be, and with love it will simply love.

As I write the human face I cry, weeping from a place deep inside of me, 

a place of which my old friend speaks, "See with the eyes of your heart.”

I see.

I write brown eyes filled with kindness, skin in nakedness 

beautiful, hands and feet compassionate, a smile the sunrise, the sunset.

I write tattered clothes from so much giving, a rosary that is a reminder that Christ is in every person in every moment of every day, hunched shoulders from so much praying, a face full of love.

I write the sparkle in clear, blue eyes, the deep wrinkles of concern on the forehead, broken hands that heal.

In the morning light I write.

I hold life closely.

I listen.

Trevor Scott Barton, stories for a brown eyed girl, 2020

Here and There

Notes from public school - day128

"And undocumented immigrants who desperately want to embrace those responsibilities see little option but to remain in the shadows, or risk their families being torn apart."

President Barack Obama, Address to the Nation on Immigration, November 20, 2014

I wrote this small piece in honor of all the students from Mexico, Central America and South America who walk through the door of my classroom and into my heart. 

They should never have to remain in the shadows, for they light are light. They should never be torn apart from their families, for they are beautiful.

Here and There

"I hope my new world will embrace me", he thinks tenderly, "And not call me an illegal alien...and not try to tear me apart from my Aunt...and not try to tear me apart...and not place me in the shadows...and not make me a shadow.

Mami, can you hear me in the dawn? Will my words reach you over the land, over the land, to the valley, between the mountains, to La Esperanza, to Honduras? Help me, Mami. Please. I don't want to be a shadow, here.

There, I was a human being. I walked beside you, Mami, my hand in yours, over the alfombras, the colored sawdust carpets on the streets, color, beauty, on Viernes Santo, Good Friday, and it was good because I was with you and with people who love me. And I sat beside you, Mami, your arm around me, under the midnight fireworks, after the late-night dinner, on Nochebuena, Christmas Eve, and the colors sparkled in your eyes, and in the colorful light, I loved you, and you loved me, and I was a human being.

Here, I might become a shadow, Mami. Is there no Good Friday on people's feet, is there no Christmas Eve in people's eyes? Are there only people, Mami, blocking the light, with angry faces and hateful words and violent hands, trying to make me a shadow? I am afraid, Mami. Help me. I am afraid of the dark. I don't want to be a shadow."

Beauty

Taki was beautiful. 

She was beautiful on the outside, with black hair, brown eyes, and dark skin against the white snow. 

She was beautiful on the inside, with a warm heart beating steadily against the Arctic cold.

When she was born, her mother swaddled her in a blanket her grandmother sewed for her. 

The blanket was red, the color of the sky over Point Hope at dusk, just before the night sky blanketed the people in frozen darkness. 

Across the blanket, stitched with bright yellow thread, were the three Arctic whales - the narwhal, the beluga, and the bowhead.

There were two narwhal whales. The long tooth of one of the narwhal's, the one that extends out from the whale's upper lip, the one that makes the whale look like the unicorn of the sea, was broken. 

Taki's grandmother was an artist with needle and thread. 

She sewed the hurt and despair of the wounded whale into it's face so you could feel it's pain just by looking at it. 

In the face of the other whale she sewed compassion and hope as it placed it's own tooth into the hole of the broken tooth to assuage the pain of her friend.

Trevor Scott Barton, stories for a brown eyed girl, 2020

Notes from public school - day 127

One of the reasons I write is because writing helps me make sense of the world around me.

Early this morning, before sunrise, as I was pulling on my hoodie, and preparing to face the long school day, I was thinking about a small part of a bigger story I’m working on.

“This day is the old woman in my story,” I thought, “Kissing me on my forehead with a light, tender kiss and whispering ‘Listen to life and do not be afraid.’”

I smiled.

I set out into the day with a listening ear and a courageous heart.

I hope the old woman was your day, too.

He looked up from the book in his lap as the Greyhound bus squeaked to a stop at the Greenville station. 

The old woman next to him fell asleep on the trip up from Charleston and leaned her head on his shoulder. 

Her face was as wrinkled as the bark of an ancient magnolia tree, and was colored the same beautiful brown as it’s trunk and branches. 

She breathed in, and the air made a soft, whistling sound through her nose. She breathed out, and it made a gentle, flapping sound through her lips. 

“Life is a symphony,” he chuckled to himself, “Of whistles and kazoos.”

“Ma’am,” he whispered. 

She didn’t move.

She kept right on sleeping and snoring. 

“Ma’am,” he said a little louder. 

Still only whistles and kazoos. 

“Ma’am,” he said a little louder still. 

This time he reached out and patted her weathered hand. She opened her tired, brown eyes and smiled a small smile at him. 

“Thanks for a lettin’ me use yo shoulda as my pilla,” she said with a gravelly voice. 

“First time I woked up beside a man in a long time. Hope my snorin’ didn’t bother you none,” she giggled. 

“No ma’am,” he said with a giggle of his own, “It was music to my ears.”

His knees and back snapped and popped as he stood up slowly and smoothed out the wrinkles in his pants and tee shirt. 

“My goodness,” said the old woman, “You make music, too.” 

He placed his hand gently on her bony shoulder. 

“We could start a band called The Human Experience,” he laughed. “People would come from all over to hear us whistle, flap, snap and pop. What do you think?”

“Yep, they’d pay us a bundle of money to hear that.”

He pulled on his jacket and waved his hand to her. “Goodbye, my friend,” he said. “Thanks for the song.”

She waved back. “Thank you,” she said. “And do me a favor. Lean on down here and let me tell you somethin’.”

He leaned down and was surprised as she kissed him on his forehead with a light, tender kiss. 

“That’s the kiss of a guardian angel,” she whispered. “Listen to life, and do not be afraid.”

He stepped off the bus and onto the street. 

Notes from public school - day 126

Notes from public school - day 126

Alex Kotlowitz is one of my favorite non-fiction writers. He wrote a remarkable book in 1992 titled There Are No Children Here: The Story of Two Boys Growing Up in the Other America. 

It's the story of Lafeyette and Pharoah Rivers, 11 and 9 year old brothers growing up in the Henry Horner housing projects in the inner city of Chicago.

I was so moved by the story, I visited Henry Horner when I was in Chicago to try and meet some of the people in the book.

Kotlowitz calls his work "the journalism of empathy" because he tries to stand in the shoes of his subjects as he is writing about them. He writes to help his readers stand in his subjects' shoes.

I try to stand in the shoes of my students as I am teaching them. I teach to help them stand in each others shoes, too. So I might call my work "the teaching of empathy." 

This year, I’ve been wearing a hoodie to school that has ‘Be Kind’ on it’s front.

Today my quiet student wore a shirt with ‘Be Kind’ on it’s front.

She is trying to stand in my shoes!

(By the way, this morning Jeremiah asked, “Mr. Barton, no offense, but what kind of shoes are those?” I answered, “They’re Birkenstock shoes. They’re wide and comfortable and they’re good shoes for me because I’m on my feet all day.” He looked at them with raised eyebrows and said, “Mmm hmm.”)

I’m not starting any fashion trends at BES.

But Emily bought a ‘Be Kind’ shirt because she wants to be kind like me.

Wow.

Here is a part of a story I’m working on that shows a little about what I mean.

There was a deep kindness in Gabby’s brown eyes.

“Hmm,” she noted, “You’re writing with a pen in a notebook. Don’t see that much anymore.”

“I’m old fashioned, I guess. I still like to see the words I write on a page. Helps me see that I’m moving from one place to another and getting somewhere.”

“If you don’t mind me askin’, what’re you writin’?”

“I don’t mind you asking at all. I’m working on a story for my newspaper, The South Carolina Defender. I’m a journalist.”

“Oh yeah? What’s your story about?”

“It’s about a family I met in Charleston, a migrant family picking peaches and tomatoes in the fields and on the farms around Berkeley County. When I met them, they were living in a gutted out school bus behind the lower 40 acres of a peach farm on Johns Island. I wrote a series of articles about them last summer to try to help our readers walk a mile in their shoes.

- Trevor Scott Barton, stories for a brown eyed girl, 2020

Ode to a Migrant Worker’s Feet

Ode to a Migrant Worker’s Feet

Her feet were in the soil,

of the land, 

held the secrets 

of the earth, 

knew the mystery of seed, dirt and water 

becoming 

corn and beans.

Her heart was in her feet, 

in the land, 

in the mystery 

itself.

"Estoy aquí,”

spoke her feet.

“I am here.”

Her feet were 

this word

to the world - 

“Soy una persona.”

"I am a person." 

- Trevor Scott Barton, poems for a brown eyed girl, 2020

Brownsville

They looked out the window of the bus together, side by side, cheek to cheek.

The heat and humidity of the Brownsville morning and the air conditioning on the bus caused the windows to fog.

Hilcias pulled his sleeve over his hand and used it as a kind of window wiper, moving it back and forth until he and Taki could see clearly the Gulf of Mexico along the coastal road.

“Wow,” whistled Hilcias softly, “Maybe 52 Blue is there.”

“Maybe,” whispered Taki. “I sure hope so.”

People began to stir and stretch and reach for their bags above and around them, but Hilcias and Taki stayed as still and quiet as the leaves on the trees that lined the street beside the bus station.

There are five foundational forces in the universe.

They hold everything together. 

They can bring order and cause chaos.

Four of them can be explained by physics - the gravitational force, the electromagnetic force, the weak force and the strong force.

The gravitational force keeps planets in orbit around their suns and our feet firmly planted on the earth.

The electromagnetic force brings us electricity, information, and connection - it underlies the mighty power of lightning and the gentle touch of the human hand.

The weak force brings us nuclear energy and makes stars shine.

The strong force holds protons and neutrons inside of atoms.

The fifth foundational force can’t be explained by physics, though.

It is love.

Taki and Hilcias stepped off of the Greyhound bus into the early morning sunlight.

“Where should we go?” asked Taki.

She looked at the horizon between the Gulf of Mexico and the Brownsville sky. 

Hilcias looked at the horizon, too.

“I guess we should go to the water,” he whistled, “If we’re going to find 52 Blue.”

They reached out for each other’s hands.

They walked together down the road toward the gulf.

This created that fifth foundational force, which is the strongest force of all, for it keeps hearts in orbit around each other and gives the possibility of being able to find a lost and lonely whale in the vast reaches of the deep, blue sea.

- Trevor Scott Barton, stories for a brown eyed girl, 2020