October 22, 2014

4:11: the alarm goes off and I lie in bed with God asking him if I really have to get up and creating
impossible equations in my head if I sleep for 20 more minutes and then work through lunch 
today, what percentage of students in sixth period will get their progress reports? 4:20 a.m:
uninvited, an image of my father's Bible, and then his hands turning the pages, and then his face
over it, earnest. 4:21 a.m. I think of how my father used to be a person, used to be a person in the world, used to be alive. I cry for a moment.  4:30: in the kitchen heating coffee from yesterday in a pan. I make an egg and toast. I feel so fully adult and proud, that it is like washing dishes for the first time. How unaccustomed I am to taking care of myself. 4:47a.m.: I light candles, turn on one light only, and begin to grade. 6:57 a.m. I drive through Elizabeth park to hide in the trees for ten minutes. I sing at the top of my lungs and have this thought if everyone everyday did everything they love and were made to do, for fun or pay, the world would be so much happier. You should write then, I tell myself. 7:15. Walk through doors of school. 11:00 DaVaughn tells me his understanding of paragraph structure has moved from a 2 to a 7. I am thrilled. He is thrilled. This is worth skipping lunch for. 12:40 Daquan looks up at me while working on the review for the exam and says, for no reason, "Miss, I love everyone in the world". I laugh. There is a fight brewing, I am out of ideas for managing this too big and too needy class, someone's phone has been stolen, I don't know who knows paragraph structure, nor why my seniors didn't come to me knowing it, but Daquan loves everyone. There is hope yet. At 3:10 I buy a bagel because I have eaten only breakfast and two apples. I am at the college by 3:30, but this is too late because I must make copies. 3:59 I watch the clock switch to 4:00 while the copying machine whirs out number 15 of the 20 copies I need. 4:10 four students walk in late and I don't feel bad for 3 minute indiscretion. At 4:51 Jaqueena, who missed school today emails me simply "hi" and I know something is going on. I respond. She responds with the sex of her baby. she missed school for the appointment. I am suddenly aware that the future of this child relies on the future of Jaqueena and the future of Jaqueena relies on, in part, my class. My strength is renewed. For Jaqueena's unborn child I will roll this boulder uphill every day. 5:20 Dylan and I sit down to talk. He hasn't been to class in weeks, since the semester started, but his baby, who is almost one, was sick and he was caring for the child. His eyes are watery with sleep because he worked third shift and he is worried. I tell him what he needs and tell him he can do it. I tell him he has to. I tell him he will. 6:10 I get home for the day and call my mother to tell her all the ways education can be improved because behind everything all day it's all I think about because there are minds and lives in the mouth of the same toothless lion that has education by the neck and my mind is buzzing with ideas. 7:30 I take a bath. 8:30 I make tea and fall into bed. I fall asleep three times writing this and I don't have the energy to edit it down to 14 lines. I finish my tea. I have gotten used to drinking tea and water right before bed to flush out my system for the next day. The added benefit is that sometimes I wake in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and, as time alone is so infrequent, I just lie there, in the center of time, feeling held. I am grateful for my home, for my job, for my body, for my bed. I am grateful for the sound of tires through a puddle or the moon through the window. It is a different thing to be glad in the middle of the night when you are free and your mind belongs to nothing but those moments. These are the sorts of things I want to tell my students. Every day is an envelope in which I am stuffing little notes that I hope they open and read when they need it most. 9:50 there is a flash of lightening and soon after a clap of thunder. 9:52: my eyelids are thick. Wake me in the morning, we have an exam to finish writing.


October 19th, 2014

You wrap me in your wind and I want no other arms.
The blades of grass rustle a praise and urge my lips
to moisten with your song. These days are monuments
to what bigger monuments there will be.
You will be first in line
to lead
which means to serve 
He says as I walk back to my car and I am thrilled and
terrified by the invitation. I want only to hide in this
garden amongst the evergreens and under low boughs.
I ran my hand along the underside of the branch and
caught the eye of a passing walker. He seemed frightened
by me. Let me rest in the garden a little longer Lord, but
not forever. I will follow You out into the world's desert.