Did you know that the downy flower that a dandelion produces is called a clock?
Everyday I am introduced to some new realm of human understanding. Students, fellow teachers, random faces on the street all have something to teach me. Sometimes my mind is wide open to all that is presented. Other times I fumble and mangle the beauty that others present to me. I leave the world bruised on those days. What can we do to keep the portal of receptiveness open? I try to not allow the sway and pitch of politics, stereotype, misconception, fallacy, or blindness cloud my thoughts. It is inevitable that something works its way to block what I am trying to perceive, giving me only an impression of some idea or thought that can give me some new vision or angle to view life.
When the wind blows, the clock is scattered leaving tiny seeds to begin anew.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Quiet Crying
Quiet. Slinking in my seat, I never look up. My books are blind. Eyes bear down on me as if they were helpless prey. My throat is ready to clamp any air that might try to escape. My mind is just waiting to scramble my ability to speak. My name is the blast that triggers the fear, the fear that sets my body into motion. Muscles tighten, stomach tumbles, my blood rushes to my face. This is it, the moment I avoided all day. Why did it have to be me? Why do I have to speak? What did I do to deserve this?
Yesterday was a good day. I cam home from school to an empty house. The sun was shining, the breeze was nice and you could see fall was all around. Yesterday was a good day. I had leftover Chinese for dinner, hot and spicy chicken, one of my faves. My best friend texted and we chatted about the dance coming up. We ended the conversation more confused about who to ask than when we started. Yesterday was a good day. I finished my homework and headed to bed. My mother got in sometime after that.
This morning was a disaster. I woke to the hateful tone my mother has. I did not know if she was yelling at me or someone else. There she was in the living room, hair tussled, face puffy from hard sleep, embarrassed in panties and bra. My dad and brother were at the door, staring through the screen door as if they were at the zoo. Their faces, so much like my own, confused and bewildered as they viewed the flailing of arms and words that hurt, if they connect...to your soul. This morning was a disaster. Knowing what was smart, I jumped in the shower. The cold water felt good, the soap smelled clean. I came out to an empty house. This morning was a disaster. Time for school, I have to hurry so I don't miss my ride.
Mr. P's class is safe. I never have to worry first thing in the morning. He only likes to hear his own voice, never stopping to talk to us. The assignment is easy, but I take a long time. Sometimes I read never knowing where I started and where I stopped. I have to read again and again. The noise in my head prevents the words from penetrating the first, second, third time. Maybe it is the feeling of being relaxed to not worry about Mr. P. He only likes one voice (his own) and that suits me fine.
I saw my friend in the hall between classes. When the bell rings it is a mad dash to get where you don't want to be. "Don't be late or you'll get a tardy!" I don't want to go, so who cares anyway? I had Chinese for dinner last night and I just realized I did not eat breakfast. I'm hungry now...ugh, lunch in another agonizing hour. I saw my friend in the hall between classes. I don't really remember who it was.
Ms. Teller just ignores me. Science is not my thing. I tried hard on the lab, but the formula just did not work. My lab book is currently missing, but I think I know where it is. I can get it in by the end of the day. Science is hard, too much lecture. My focus is better, but today I am hungry. Ms. Teller just ignores me. I feel a bit lost, but I can figure it out in the lab.
Finally, Mrs. Violante's class. We work for a short time, then it is time to eat. I like Mrs. Violante and the work we do in here. Sometimes we do some stupid stuff, but the reading is always great. Writing is the best, that is when I am in my element. Today we get our personal essays back. I am so excited to see what she commented about. Before we get our stories we have to read a short on the board. The words seem blind. Its time for lunch.
I eat alone today. I just want to hear the quiet.
Back to class and there is some guy from college in class. He says something about needing experience. I hear some of the girls giggle and whisper "creeper". Apparently he has gone over our stories and he is asking us questions. Why, why, why today. I can't talk, no not today of all days. Emotion is eating my insides and my nerves have become raw. Eyes bear down on me as if I were prey. He said my story is great, he wants me to read it to the class. I normally like to shine, let the others envy my lone skill, but today is not the day. Not today. Yesterday was a good day, this morning was a disaster. My mind is scrambling my ability to speak. My name was the blast that triggered the fear, fear that set my body into motion. Muscles are tight, stomach tumbles, my blood rushes to my face. That was the moment, the moment I had to speak...speak about my mother. Why did she make me stay? Her life is a mess and I'm in the middle. What did I do to deserve all the drama? Away, away, I just want to get away. Finally, at last...Mrs. Violante's class is over. This day is a disaster.
Yesterday was a good day. I cam home from school to an empty house. The sun was shining, the breeze was nice and you could see fall was all around. Yesterday was a good day. I had leftover Chinese for dinner, hot and spicy chicken, one of my faves. My best friend texted and we chatted about the dance coming up. We ended the conversation more confused about who to ask than when we started. Yesterday was a good day. I finished my homework and headed to bed. My mother got in sometime after that.
This morning was a disaster. I woke to the hateful tone my mother has. I did not know if she was yelling at me or someone else. There she was in the living room, hair tussled, face puffy from hard sleep, embarrassed in panties and bra. My dad and brother were at the door, staring through the screen door as if they were at the zoo. Their faces, so much like my own, confused and bewildered as they viewed the flailing of arms and words that hurt, if they connect...to your soul. This morning was a disaster. Knowing what was smart, I jumped in the shower. The cold water felt good, the soap smelled clean. I came out to an empty house. This morning was a disaster. Time for school, I have to hurry so I don't miss my ride.
Mr. P's class is safe. I never have to worry first thing in the morning. He only likes to hear his own voice, never stopping to talk to us. The assignment is easy, but I take a long time. Sometimes I read never knowing where I started and where I stopped. I have to read again and again. The noise in my head prevents the words from penetrating the first, second, third time. Maybe it is the feeling of being relaxed to not worry about Mr. P. He only likes one voice (his own) and that suits me fine.
I saw my friend in the hall between classes. When the bell rings it is a mad dash to get where you don't want to be. "Don't be late or you'll get a tardy!" I don't want to go, so who cares anyway? I had Chinese for dinner last night and I just realized I did not eat breakfast. I'm hungry now...ugh, lunch in another agonizing hour. I saw my friend in the hall between classes. I don't really remember who it was.
Ms. Teller just ignores me. Science is not my thing. I tried hard on the lab, but the formula just did not work. My lab book is currently missing, but I think I know where it is. I can get it in by the end of the day. Science is hard, too much lecture. My focus is better, but today I am hungry. Ms. Teller just ignores me. I feel a bit lost, but I can figure it out in the lab.
Finally, Mrs. Violante's class. We work for a short time, then it is time to eat. I like Mrs. Violante and the work we do in here. Sometimes we do some stupid stuff, but the reading is always great. Writing is the best, that is when I am in my element. Today we get our personal essays back. I am so excited to see what she commented about. Before we get our stories we have to read a short on the board. The words seem blind. Its time for lunch.
I eat alone today. I just want to hear the quiet.
Back to class and there is some guy from college in class. He says something about needing experience. I hear some of the girls giggle and whisper "creeper". Apparently he has gone over our stories and he is asking us questions. Why, why, why today. I can't talk, no not today of all days. Emotion is eating my insides and my nerves have become raw. Eyes bear down on me as if I were prey. He said my story is great, he wants me to read it to the class. I normally like to shine, let the others envy my lone skill, but today is not the day. Not today. Yesterday was a good day, this morning was a disaster. My mind is scrambling my ability to speak. My name was the blast that triggered the fear, fear that set my body into motion. Muscles are tight, stomach tumbles, my blood rushes to my face. That was the moment, the moment I had to speak...speak about my mother. Why did she make me stay? Her life is a mess and I'm in the middle. What did I do to deserve all the drama? Away, away, I just want to get away. Finally, at last...Mrs. Violante's class is over. This day is a disaster.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Time to get started
So I wanted to start writing. Writing for what...I'm not sure yet. I am going to try and start publishing something daily. We'll see.
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