More with Less

More with Less

More students with less funding

More papers with less time

More desks with less space

More trash to empty with less custodians to empty it

More demands on the principal with less time with students and teachers

More hoops to jump through with less focus on what really matters

More indicators of progress with less understanding of what that means

More technology integration expected with less operational computers

More expectations with less direction

More kids in need with less time to help them

More time at school with less time for family

More realization of how I should live with less doing of what I should

More informational texts with less poetry

More specificity of standards with less knowledge of how we’re being assessed

More of a race to the top with less certainty about the destination

More expectations for our readers with less help for those who don’t get it

More rigor with less clarity of what it looks like

More demands on us all with less understanding of how to meet the demands

More with Less

Please feel free to add your own “More with Less”

Now I  have more depression with less coffee left in my cup.

Doing more with less is reality, and sometimes it’s hard on us all. 

As I told my student last week, write down your problems so they will lose power over you.

More writing giving me power over problems with less stress overwhelming me.

An Open Door

An open door
advice sought.
Do I say
what needs to be said?
It might hurt,
a wedge driven,
between us.
Reality for each person
different.
Their drama unfolds,
truth sought.
Whose truth?
Shades of truth.
Anger and frustration,
no resolution.
 
Once I felt that pain
and opened that door,
yet I wasn't ready
to hear what was said,
needing only someone to listen,
so I could walk through it
and come out the other end.

To be silent
and listen
Asking questions
Without giving answers
allowing the process
to unfold.
Is that my role?
To keep the door open
without barging in.
I can't fix it
by fixing it.
And so I wait...

Becoming

Becoming
After a day of immersion,
I said,
Tell me about a poem you liked.

His hand shot up.
He wanted to talk
about something he read--a first.

He said,
I like Tupac's poems;
he writes
about having no one to help him
through the tough times
except God,
and I understand what he feels.

The class was silent
from the boy's sixth grade wisdom,
a boy who usually plays too much
and does too little.

At the end of class,
he asked,
to check out the book;
he's never asked that before.

Told him no,
I needed that book
in the other classes.

Can I read it at lunch?
he asked.

I gave him the book.
At lunch, he read.
No loudness.
No playing.
Little eating.
He left this world
for a moment.
Connecting to another,
his feet resting on the adjacent bench.
Eyes transfixed on the page,
Getting to know Tupac.

Tears in my eyes,
I watched him becoming
a reader, maybe for the first time.

At the end of the day,
I gave him the book
and a small sketch pad.
told him to read the book
and mix his sketches with words,
to write me a poem
with art in it.

This way, I told him
he could put down his struggles
in his usual form--art
but  could add words, too,
like Tupac.

This way, I told him
his struggles would lose power
over him,
and he could overcome them.

Today, he came to me,
shyly handing me his poems,
bearing his soul.
Wanting better for himself.

Tears in my eyes,
I watched him becoming
a writer, maybe for the first time,
working out his problems on the page,
and seeing himself moving on.

Tomorrow, who knows.
Maybe he'll win that poetry contest,
And he'll see himself becoming
a winner, maybe for the first time.

Today I sent him home
with a Langston Hughes' poem
and a poetry contest entry form.

I don't Twitter--too few characters for me. Still, though, I love the idea of the 6 word memoir. You can even get published at http://www.smithmag.net/sixwords/.

What would my six word memoir be?

Here are a few (some are definitely not memoir-worthy):


Tomorrow I rise early. Break over.


I am tired. Still I type.


My thoughts meander.  My creativity unleashed.


I can do this. Write daily.


Yesterday no blogging. Today  comes flogging.


That is all. Off to bed.

Has anyone done this with their students? I would love to hear about it.

Teen on a Bench

Black chucks with purple shoestrings and an attitude. Sharp edges on her short dark hair that say, "Don't mess with me!" She sits down on the bench ignoring the other adults and small children already there and barks a command at her little brother. Off he goes to play on the playground.

Feeling released of her responsibility, she pulls out her smart phone and starts punching keys. I assume she will be texting and Facebooking just like I was a few minutes earlier. Then, she pulls out her earbuds and blocks out the noise around her. I think she is a typical teen closing herself to the world around her.

I think of how she will miss all that I've seen in children playing together becoming instant friends in a playground world, children taking on new challenges as they try to conquer the monkey bars, and children defying their parents rules as they climb the slides.

My view changes of this "typical teen" the moment I see her pull out a pen and her journal and begin to write. Those earbuds are merely closing out the noise and distractions as she opens her mind to her own world putting the pen to the page.

Feeling like a stalker, I stare at her and wonder what and why she is writing. I'm wondering if she had a teacher who inspired her. She is a writer. She is beautiful. She has entered a special place amidst all the chaos of this playground world.

As I walk down the hill to the car, I turn to capture the moment, taking a picture with my iPhone. As I put my phone in my purse, I spot my journal, forlorn and barely used and realize that a photographic image cannot capture what I have seen in the teen on a bench.

Pluck It!

One morning you wake up and you’re old. I don’t mean old as in one foot in the grave. I mean old as in your hair has more gray, and your wrinkles are more defined. I mean old as in you’re wondering who that stranger in the mirror is.

Those little hairs of gray are not tame on me; they are wiry, poking out of the mass of blond orange curls atop my head screaming to be noticed. Just like that little old biddy in me screaming to be noticed finds herself complaining and griping and moaning about too much to do, students who don’t care, the lack of balance in her life, the papers to grade, the educational policies we are given, and those who see teaching as just a job.

I don’t let those hairs stand out for too long. I take that wiry gray, and I just pluck it. Maybe that’s how I should be with the little old biddy in me (I’m 43, by the way). Pluck that biddy out. Just pluck it! She’s getting in the way of me becoming the best Maya I can become.

Meandering

As a stream meanders,

so do my thoughts.

So much I've begun,

yet little I've completed.

I am here,

incomplete.

Seeking to grow,

to know.

To channel the course

of this meandering stream.

I am a writer,

whose lost her voice.

My voice has become

a status update, a text message, an email.

My soul cries out for more.

I can't share myself

knowing my characters are limited.

I can't find myself;

I will limit my character.

Channel my energies--

set the course of the stream,

And just write.