knock, knock

obama lists bob dylan and the fugees as two of his favorite musical artists. perfect.

san and i are building some sort of relationship, i think (see -itis). he comes by my room more often, at least once per day. he tends to walk in during that time just after the bell when nobody has arrived yet for the next period, hands tucked into the bottom of his pockets, eyes averted to the floor or nearest wall. but now he speaks ... usually it starts with a "so, what are you doing?" (which is usually picking up after my previous class and getting ready for the next) and then a limited exchange follows. i try to make meaningful conversation in the minute before he decides he has to run to his own class and it usually ends awkwardly.

what i've gotten from our brief meetings; san spends most of the time alone at his house, with his family working at a chinese restaurant in town. he wants to make friends but doesn't think he, nor they, can relate to one another. he "was trained to feel no emotions" and i'm trying to make sense of this without asking too many questions. he is very intelligent and articulate, but extremely closed. i've been encouraging him to come to a drama club meeting since i tend to have more time to really get to know those kids in the hours after the final bell rings, but he hasn't shown yet. i found him in the pacing in the hall near the auditorium after school last wednesday and, thinking he needed a little encouraging to come on in, went over to talk to him. i wish i had written down what passed between us, because it was one of the most peculiar conversations i've ever had. he asked what i did for run, and i told him teach. as always, i was doing most of the talking but he was listening and would occasionally ask the floor another question. at one point, i think he mumbled "we should hang out" but i couldn't really hear him. when i asked him to repeat what he had said, he turned and hurried away. i followed him out the front door of the school apologizing for not hearing him clearly and soon realized that whatever door was opened had closed, for now at least.

earlier this week, he came in my room after school while i was helping a senior write his research paper and told us a joke.

"what do you call a potato with glasses?"

... a spec-tater.

i almost fell out of my chair laughing. more so at the absurdity of san, sans any emotion (save nervous agitation or strained indifference), telling such a simple joke straight-faced and the unexpected delivery of afternoon humor. he told another one, which i can't remember right now but wasn't as funny. then left.

the rainbow connection

just returned from an assembly in the auditorium for our seniors, meant to encourage them (though poorly done in my opinion) to stay on top of their senior projects. after several pto members justified their presence by attempting to make the students feel guilty for not applying themselves when "we're willing to take time off of work to be here for you", a certain administrator whom i admire, at times, and respect more than most launched into a typical long-winded, repetitive sermon on responsibility and "reality". kids talked, seats creaked, i could see several cell phones out. regardless of good intentions, a gift, perhaps precious but poorly wrapped and improperly presented, might be discarded without a glance inside by the impatient or uninterested recipient. i'm reminded so often of the power of influence we have over these children, and discouraged at how often it is wasted, manipulated or misused. while the orchestra in his head reached a climax, our great motivator had an inspiration ...

"some of you are confused. you walk around saying you are seniors, calling yourself a senior, but you really don't know what it means to be a senior. sort of like a man who acts like a woman, you're just pretending and it's going to catch up with you eventually."

from the back of the auditorium, i had to turn my back to process this. why? in school? i recalled my first time at a baptist service outside of oxford, overwhelmed by love and acceptance initially through the singing, dancing, clapping and embracing ... only to have my heart stop when the pastor launched into an hour long call to end immorality in our communities, going as far as to state that if any man made a pass at him he would strike him down with his fists.

i've taken to showing youtube clips of obama to my club members after school. had an entire room walking it out to obamafy and falling in love with obama. politics are cool. what i love most of all, are his messages of unity. the push towards embracing our differences and coming together, not simply nationally but globally, resonates with what i believe needs to be in the forefront of all our decisions if we hope to make any progress in alleviating the great problems of the world today; poverty, disease, war, corruption, slavery. definitely idealistic, perhaps naive, but very necessary. anyway, in the one voice clip barack urges red states and blue states to come together, that we have more in common than not.

... we worship an awesome god in the blue states and don't want federal agents poking around in our libraries in the red states. we coach little league in the blue states and yes, we've got some gay friends in the red states ...

"wow", one of my students said in honest admiration, "that guy has some balls".

just last week, isiah, a junior who i've started helping to look for colleges up north, stopped by my room before school.

"mr. doyle, do you think me being black, from mississippi and gay will help me get into a good school?"

absolutely, i told him, that and his good grades. up until then, i really wasn't sure if isiah was gay or not. or open about it. when i think about how ackward, insecure and immature i was in high school, it makes someone like isiah seem that much more incredible. isiah twirls the baton for our school's band, and does so in a way that causes the stomachs of nearly every teenage boy watching to flip uncomfortably. when, "that's so gay" has replaced the juvenile "you're so stupid", when many of your teachers, administrators, pastors and other "community leaders" are saying that what you're doing, who you are, is somehow wrong and immoral, you've got to shake your head in appreciation of his bravery.

last year, dave said he hung a rainbow flag behind his desk in a delta classroom. dave is straight, and was making a statement. i think it's time i ordered mine.

"Why is it that, as a culture, we are more comfortable

seeing two men holding guns than holding hands?"

Ernest Gaines

greek to me

drama club made front page of the mississippi press ... big up. the kids did a really great job and i wish more community members had been in attendance to see them shine. hopefully our program at the end of the month gets a little more attention. rather than tackle the long list of incredibly important things i need to do, i stuck around for the step show afterwards. and am glad i did. i hadnt laughed that hard in a long time, and i laugh a lot. was really refreshing to see the kids outside of school, in their element, just being kids. also laughed to myself at the fact that in a room filled with at least 500, the only other "white" attendee was the DJ. the irony lies in the fact that a few weeks earlier at the mardi gras ball i noted that the only "black" individual present among the 1,000+ was .... yep, the DJ. i'm so glad music transcends race.

after burgers and a pineapple shake from ed's drive-in, met up with walsh and the yacht club crew at sea dawg's, rita's bar. country music and beirut, such a drastic shift from the hot gym i just left. i was proudly rockin' my obama t-shirt (print of his profile and the words "yes we can" across the chest) and sitting in the corner when a bearded guy came up to me.

"that barack obama?"

yea.

"you voting for that nigger?"

already did.

lucky number four

just bought my ticket and i'm on my way ...

one love

my favorite holiday ... and my middle name

scrambling for a short "love" story this morning to read aloud as a bell-ringer, i recalled tim patterson's 'running with zelda' (scroll down to monday, feb 4) and laughed out loud as i printed off a classroom set. even more fun was coming up with questions to go with it. when i get a chance, i'll post them.

nothing eventful tonight - haven't slept since monday so looking forward to being horizontal, even if it is alone. have a pomegranate and some cheap red wine to tuck me in. maybe i'll send another email down that dead end street. or maybe i'll just put on some memories to listen to while i drift away; a little direction never hurt any dreamer ...

this is a short poem i wrote a few years ago on a napkin pressed against the dashboard, knees steering the wheel, on my way to jack's hot dog stand in north adams. the rain always helps me to write. it reminds me of my dad. rain, not the poem. the poem reminds me of you.

lauryn hill is killing me softly on the radio
the canvas above is gray and filled with questions
hard to say whether the sun is coming up
or slowly going down
yet you seem to love these unpredictable spring storms
they are nice for long walks, and
the getting out of casual apathy
affection blossoming before conviction
or perhaps just another dry season ....

i drive away through the rain, my palm caressing high noon
carefully sliding along the steering wheel
remembering the soft curve of your thigh
looking forward to the warm, wet
raindrops embracing the windshield
where i allow them to lie
like your kisses
preferring to not see clearly for the moment
and simply watch the water fall
landing like tears on a glass cheek
then running away
looking for the casual designs left behind in their wake
recognizing my own arbitrary path
gaining speed, but losing substance
dragging the rest of my life behind it ....

-itis

I wrote this poem
While my students worked and I
Stared through the window

The cool wind blowing
A soft Mississippi breeze
Through the Cypress trees

As old as the school
And all the houses nearby
Or perhaps older

Small silver raindrops
Chased each other down the glass
Eyes to the outside

Passed the frozen face
Of Langston, W.E.B. and
Other black poets

And easter eggs with
Haiku embryos inside
The first up, still wet

Skill or ambition?
The rest deliberated
On lines or circles

Counting syllables
On their fingers. Is pink cool?
How much time 'til lunch?

Or simply sat still
Pencils filled with latency
Eyes out the window

Fogetting their eggs
While dreaming of Cypress trees
Blowing in the wind


* * *

... that was fifth period. as i looked around the web for cheap deals on paperback books (purchasing a class set of The Alchemist since the school won't and the kids can't) during my break later, "San" appeared in my door. San is the only student of asian descent at our school of over 1,000. San does not talk. Ever. At least, not to my knowledge. In the mornings, I pass him on the side of the road. Sometimes he is walking towards the school, often he is standing or pacing - as if he is waiting, seemingly unsure whether to continue on, go back, or just stay put. Always alone. I've stopped to offer a ride several times, and only once he took me up on it. Still, no words. Though I pried and tried. San was on the soccer team, but rarely, if ever, played soccer. He either haphazardly kicked at the ball if it got close enough or ignored it completely, and occasionally ran, awkwardly, but without apparent logic when others were running. Or weren't. He has a skin disease that makes him itch. And when he itches his arms, neck or face, he digs at himself like a dog scratching for fleas. Passionately and suddenly. I haven't witnessed any peer interactions. I wonder who he sits with at lunch ... if he talks to them ... if he ever smiles or laughs. I don't teach San, he is a freshman, but every so often he comes into my room, appearing suddenly in my door between periods like a disheveled phantom as he did today.

"Hey, San. What's up? Come on in."

"Going to do anything now that soccer is over? You could join drama club, we're always looking for more members. Tuesdays and Thursdays we meet."

Normally, there is a pause for several seconds then he will turn, though never deliberately, to leave as if he didn't hear you at all, or got suddenly nervous/terribly afraid. Only he never seems nervous or afraid. He is Bartleby. Today, however, he came in further, said "Hello, Mr. Doyle", and bent over as if he was wretching silently. Sort of a slow, controlled seizure or a poorly-feigned vomit. I barely swallowed the greeting before getting up to see if he was ok. Then he was up and gone. Drama? Illness?

Anyone I've asked about him, students or teachers, say he is just really weird; "wacked-out", in fact. Where does that sort of silence come from?

don't pass the test, re-write it

free all afternoon
but a thousand things to do
not one getting done

after several, but not nearly enough, hours of laundry, dishes and list-writing i was rescued by sir walsh and ended up kayaking along the point for the remainder of the afternoon. i wish i had a camera to share the sun setting through those long stretches of marshgrass, shimmering in the shallow water, bouncing off waves like liquid diamonds, its long reflection turning from white, to yellow, to orange carpets while the wind brought us back into choctaw marina and pelicans watched from the tops of piers. a bbq pork sandwhich from big r's and im back to tackle what is left to be done ... or, lay on the floor with dylan and marley. my shoulders feel like they've accomplished something today; my hands are dry; i feel too good to continue cleaning.

it's difficult ...

to make inspiration sound poetic
unless its genuine
and raw
hard to save yourself
like imagination carefully choreographed on a tv screen
like my people, instead of our people
like words that aren't your own
or someone else's story
like answers without questions
or the present with no past
like keeping time wrapped around your wrist
like working to make money
like death
like truth
like power
like giving god a name
like tasting coffee grown on a sun-drenched plantation
not protected beneath a canopy
like children growing up in cities
like a single parent
only thing, you'd never know the difference
if that was all you knew ...

I spent the afternoon laying in bed and listening to
The music of thought
Rumi, Leonard Cohen, Black Ice
Every so often I would shift and stretch
Notice which part of the room is now lit
And which is in shadow
My bed is humming, alive
The clothes on the floor, dead
My hair, dirty
My mind, clean
One shift and I notice my room through the mirror
That it looks different, bigger
Like there may be more than these four walls
If I just looked a little closer
A convenient illusion
I want to get up and look at myself,
To see if I, too, might seem larger than life
Deeper than this side of the mirror might suggest
But I am comfortable in bed
And afraid to sit up
Have you ever really looked at your reflection
And seen a stranger?
The longer you stare
The less you like what you see
Afraid of still water, shards of glass, or looking people in the eye
Quick passing glances, and you're ok
But if you reject the comfort
And security of the ceiling fan
You might fall into the well of possibilities
And drown
It’s safer just to lie in bed and listen to poetry
While the light falls to sleep and the shadows play
In the corners of the room