worth watching

“This [genocide] is how we came to own these United States. This is the legacy of manifest destiny. Prisoners are still born into prisoner of war camps, long after the guards are gone.” 
-Aaron Huey

SELF-PORTRAIT (by David Whyte)

It doesn't interest me if there is one God
or many gods.
I want to know if you belong or feel
abandoned.
If you know despair or can see it in others.
I want to know
if you are prepared to live in the world
with its harsh need 
to change you.  If you can look back
with firm eyes
saying this is where I stand.  I want to know
if you know
how to melt into that fierce heat of living
falling toward
the center of your longing.  I want to know
if you are willing 
to live, day by day, with the consequence of love
and the bitter
unwanted passion of your sure defeat.


I have heard, in that fierce embrace, even
the gods speak of God.

Agatha still thinks fondly of her legless doll, Anna.*

*A sentence from one of my phonics group's curriculum.  
Here's one more good one: ''The wickedness of the repellently lipless frogmen who had hatched in the rank dankness of the vast dismal bogs on this godless planet left us despondent.''
I should start counting the references I see to ''dismal bogs'' in those books. Numberless, really.


Now for a few more great quotes from two of mis favoritos, Seth and Sirgio.
Seth: ''I'm a little sick right now, so you might not want to touch me.''
Seth again: ''Man, that's an old life.''  -Comment regarding Amos McGee's propensity to wake up early, quickly trade his pajamas for a freshly pressed uniform, measure three spoonfuls of sugar into his oatmeal, and put on the kettle for tea in the story A Sick Day for Amos McGee


Sirgio (el gansta pequeño): ''Is it hot in here, or is it just me?'' (Mr. Garcia and I made eye contact at this, trying not to laugh, but Sirgio maintained a straight face, so perhaps he actually was feeling warm).
Sirgio again: ''What's on your eyes?'' (regarding my turquoise eyeliner) 
me: ''Oh, just my eyeliner.  I thought I'd try something different.''
Sirgio: ''Why?''
Me, explaining to Sirgio that his birthday on June 21 is not just the first day of summer, but has a name.  ''It's called Summer Solstice.  It's very special because it's the longest day of the year.''
Sirgio, in his gravelly little voice: ''Oh yeah!  My birthday's the coolest day of the year!''  


Now a writing sample, Seth again, summarizing A Sick Day for Amos McGee: ''Amos Mcgiy wuc uq rliy.  he gits sick.  thay hav a sliqovr.''

(that's, ''Amos McGee woke up early.  He gets sick.  They have a sleepover.'')

popcorn mutiny

''My grandma, she is rich.''

''How many money does she have?''

''199.''

''My grandma is rich too. She has 420.''

-conversation overheard between Alejandro and Dominic, on the way to first grade small group

For a school fundraiser in January, Blue Ridge decided to sell popcorn for $0.25 a bag. Not realizing how many kids would be excited about this, the popcorn ran out before K-2 got a chance to buy. ''Where is the popcorn truck?'' a tall black kindergartner asked me at recess, concern furrowing his brow. ''We're about to have a popcorn mutiny on our hands,'' the principal joked.

Recess means I'm pushing kids on swings, counting to sixty in Spanish until it's time to switch, holding one end of the jump rope while tiny kindergarten Alice jumps carefully, tongue sticking out in concentration. I'm trying to convince kids to keep jackets on--most of them have variations of the same jacket, thanks to Wal-Mart and similar stores.

We play Apples to Apples Junior with my third grade phonics group (the Spanish-speaking ones). I wonder about how it will go and get a clear idea when, in the first round, the adjective ''famous'' receives the subjects ''science experiment,'' ''mustard,'' and ''Pinocchio.'' (And if Pinocchio is indeed famous, it's because I helped that student choose that word--her English is the lowest of the four). Another example: someone enters the word ''crown'' for ''enjoyable.'' The good thing? They seem to be enjoying themselves, and it gives us a nice break from the sometimes painful work of reading and practicing pronunciation correctly and spelling.

Dylan likes to go by Dilly B. Slippy (the B is for Beatrice, he tells me). Kimberly's sister's birthday party has a tie-dye, zebra stripes, and peace sign theme. We talk about the meaning of the word ''ache,'' and Virginia tells me, ''Like I get really sore arms from using the mouse.''

''We gonna get a medal and a picture of you when we graduate?'' Dominic asks me, referring to our first grade poetry group. He is all about incentives--prizes, stickers, rewards of any sort. Even a photograph of me, I guess. Heh.

When we work on sentence building with our vocab words, Alejandro, who gets really into it, writes, ''I have a drone house with three windowe.'' ''A dream house?'' I ask, clarifying. ''No, brown,'' he tells me.

Oh, what would life be without these little guys?

I grew up on a lake. Most evenings of my first ten years of existence were spent walking its 2.25 mile perimeter, or else canoeing around it at dusk.

My mother's spun mythology permeates my childhood, the way she called the little patch of land surrounded by water ''Monkey Island,'' telling me stories about the orangutans who resided there. Christmas morning, she would ask, ''Did you hear the bells on the roof last night?'' and I would shake my head, wondering, How did I sleep through magic?

She was the one who convinced me, easily, that the fake deer along our neighbors' driveways were real, so that I would tiptoe past, not wanting to scare them.

She measured road trip time in Sesame Street episodes and told me stories whenever we had to drive more than 30 minutes, about my friends and me solving mysteries for our neighbors, hiding out in our tree-house club house, always heading down to the swimming hole in the woods at the end.

In a way, I think these stories, this enchantment, saved me. They helped me to access another world when real life did not feel safe, did not appear to be a desired story.

I was amazed to learn that over 50% of Wyoming's lands are public, that hematologists make upwards of $260,000 in a year... but you couldn't pay me enough to study blood, even if I had the mind for it.

The fog rains and the steaming kettle sings and dailiness is, in fact, luxury, if we will only take note.

Well I've been thinking of eating kumquats out of the trees at Westmont every year about this time, of the dogwood red along creekbeds farther north, the plum blossoms of February and March in San Francisco, the quickly-coming jasmine of Santa Barbara. I know I'll be heart-glad any moon now. I know the days themselves are rich.

And riding the bus with little J. after school, helping her get home in case of seizure, well the first time I boarded all I could think of were the last buses I rode, much further south, of the heart-attack feeling of fear at the driving, then the letting go, the trusting that things would be okay, the enjoyment, even, of the trip.

I've been thinking of the magic of our days, even in March grayness. Of the hope that all things will come together. So I will keep letting go.

I'm not even embarrassed to say it: K. and I saw this last night and cried the whole way through. Sooooo good.