The Highlight of Yesterday was Getting to Bring Will & Jess Into the Conversation at the nth Hour of ZOOM Meetings and Classes

New rule: Do not schedule day long meetings on days when you also must teach. I didn't quite understand ZOOM fatigue, until yesterday. After 12 hours, I realized, "This is not healthy. My stomach is upset, my eyes are watering, I have a headache, and I'm seeing flashes of light whenever I look away."

With that noted, the day was a tremendous success, if not overwhelming. The highlight was when Jess and William presenting their 8 years of work with CWP and all the data they've collected, changes in classroom practices they've made, and literacy adjustments that they made. It's always more interesting when it is teachers teaching teachers. There's no need for the jargon, social positioning, high-brow vocabulary to say the simplest things in the most complicated way. It's just real, pure, honest, and awesome. I think about all the sessions I attend where I listen to 98% blabby blab blab blab, and 2%, "Oh, we already know this. What's the point?"  Give me teachers who study their classroom practice every day.

Every time I hear them speak I grow prouder. They live their work. They love their kids. They are dedicated to the profession. Sadly, the three of us were scheduled to present 4 times at NCTE this year, but because of Covid-19, the hospitals in Colorado are in need of the conference hotels. It had to be canceled - ah, better safe than sorry.

I can't believe it is already Thursday, and I'm more disillusioned that I haven't met all my goals for the week yet. I never left my house yesterday and only got up once from my office chair to get ginger ale to make it through my evening class.

Of all the meetings yesterday, the one about planning for the Fall with ever-changing federal and state policies is one for the record books. The word in use is fluidity...and to plan for every case scenario (just in case).

Ugh. Glad I'll be on sabbatical after al the plans are in place.

This Little Guy in A Father's Hands, Hatched from the 'Dinosaur Eggs' His Daughter's Been Parenting

If you know John, a man who teaches Religious studies at Fairfield University, you quickly see he looks like a Nordic warrior or Russian wrestler. He has a fantastic beard, stands well above 6'6 and is a brilliant scholar. He's also an incredible landscaper and we've added his house on our trail of University professors' homes we hike by every day. Occasionally we find people out and about and we chat for a short bit.

I worked from 7 a.m. until 4 yesterday and decided to do the walk, listen to a book, and collect my thoughts before another 5 p.m. meeting. John and his wife were clipping plants outside as I walked by and their neighbor was discussing selling his home with them. John yelled to his daughter who was tending "dinosaur eggs in the backyard" to bring two that hatched out front. His daughter put water in two Gelato containers and returned shortly with , infant, red-ear sliders that they found while hiking.

As soon as his daughter brought them around front, John just started giggling....like tears in his eyes laughter. "They're just so frickn' cute," he said asking for her to put one in his hand. "Look at how tiny they are."

I wasn't expecting this, as John is a behemoth in a Hagrid-kind-of way. That's not an insult by any means. He's just a tall, fit man. Seeing him giggle and then get pure joy out of racing the turtles as if they were miniature matchbox cars simply made my day. "They're just so animated and tiny."

His daughter had similar joy.

It was a small moment of happiness in a very trying time that interrupted our conversation of University life, the importance of Black Lives Matter, the Covid-19 numbers, and the difference between the protestors, en masse, and the looters, much smaller, who exacerbate the trouble we all are living with right now.

The gentleness he displayed for his daughter, and the integrity he leads and lives with, are admirable. If only more of our species were like this, without the need for advocating militancy, superficial power, and insecure know-it-all-ness. I'll choose fledgling Trachemys scripts elegans over Homo sapiens any day...except when they are big tortoises and get to mating season, grunting those horrendous sounds. That always has me asking, "WTF?"


Today: Another day of writing and night of teaching. Wishing all well. This is a lot for everyone.

Back to Teaching, But With Total Appreciation for Chitunga and Edem Who Are Finding Hope During These Times

Chitunga, surveying the backyard from his upstairs window, made a suggestion, "I think it would be smart to landscape the backyard a little more so that we have something good to look at while we're at home." After listening more, he suggested different annuals and perennials, so I took him up on it. We went to a local nursery and I let him pick out what he thought would be aesthetically pleasing for the home. We are benefiting from clearer skies, birds seeming louder, and the everyday changes that occur from knowing a location so well. We, like the rest of the nation, need something to counter the images online and via television. We chose to be outdoors this weekend.

Edem joined us. We moved plants, trimmed, relocated, cut, maneuvered, shifted rocks, and worked up a decent sweat. The goal is to see the meaning of life in our backyard from every angle possible - that is, that life can be life and diversity is beautiful. In the middle: God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. His foresight had the wisdom for this change.

I quickly fell back into the 14-hour day because my June course began last night. I didn't leave my office much, but to run and to check on Chitunga before he headed off to his overnight job (a way to make money before employment begins in the Fall at Ernst & Young). I went out back briefly and used Edem's camera to get a few photos of the work. There's more to come, and I'll always be willing to work with the Earth so that life has a better tomorrow.

I've been doing most of the cooking, but we did order in on Saturday. The leftovers have held over to Monday, and as I was finishing up the meal at 10 p.m. last night, I started throwing the containers into the garbage. I realized how quickly it filled, too - another reality hitting from our stay-at-home lifestyle is the fact that we aren't bringing as much waste into our abode. I am realizing how much garbage the dine-in/dine-out culture really produces. This is true for groceries, too. Now that we went without plastic bags and we can't use our own bags because of Covid-19, we put our wares in the cart and then into the car, and then into the cupboards. There's none of the plastic waste. It's nice.

I appreciate finding such insight to bring temporary joy in the chaos of these times, also recognizing the privileges that come from being in a home that can offer such reflection. I've always been able to see the world for what it is all around me, but I'm definitely seeing the world for what it is right now, including the people in it. Perhaps that is why Tunga's back yard efforts offer hope. 

The God Son and the God Send...Sending Happy Birthdays to Jacob Charles and Susan James @bookdealerSusan

Seven years, this red-head, children's and young adult-lit reading woman chose me as a meal partner at the Louisiana State University Young Adult Literature Conference and nothing has been the same since. Had I known that this beautiful friendship would be what it is now, I might have taken more notes about her in my 2015 blog!!! Since then, we've become regular collaborators, texters, Face-timers, Zoomers, and corresponders. More importantly, the two of us have become one another's therapists and unconditional friends.

Last summer, I had the pleasure of being hosted by Susan and her partner, Patrick, in their beautiful home in Pensacola. Lucky for me, Patrick is a bourbon drinker, and he introduced me to grilling the perfect rib-eye, which I've done ever since. Susan introduced me to the most incredible smoked tuna cracker dip (eeks...was it Tuna? I think it was) and a never-ending booklist, including Hey, Kiddo, which I read on my flight home.

Happy Birthday, Suzie Q.

It's also Mr. J.C., Jacob Charles birthday and I understand my package arrived last week (just in time for him to enjoy Nic Stone's latest book - I can't wait for the movie....are you listening Marvel...this needs to be a movie). I also can't wait for them to send me a video of Jake playing the game I sent. I'm forever 15 according to Abu and Lossine, but I also can dip lower into middle school humor, as well. It's totally a middle-school boy game and I would so be playing it with him if I lived in the area and/or be able to deliver the gifts in person.

It seems like yesterday Dave came home at 1 a.m. a I was babysitting Sean-Man to announce, "Your sister gave birth to a boxer....either the dog kind or the fighting man kind." He had this scrunched up nose and this mean look with an underbite about him. He stretched that look off, however, by the time he came home from the hospital. I was lucky to be in Syracuse when all this went down.

I was also fortunate to be a go-to babysitter during the years I was doing my doctorate, only being replaced by Chitunga when he attended LeMoyne.

Happy Birthday, Jacob Charles! Today begins the June-mester and it's back to online teaching I go!
Wishing the God Son and the God Send a very special day today. Make it GREEEAAAATTTT!

In Reflection of “We Are All Projects...Together We’re Strong” at this Moment in History. Trying to Make Sense of It All.

I woke up this morning thinking about about a lot of things: the gathering that friends of mine put together in Stratford as a peaceful protest of our nation's shenanigans, photographs of cities across the country demonstrating peaceful, passionate protests, and more that capture frustration and rage. I also have images of damage done in Louisville, Kentucky - my second home - including the graffiti and markings upon the J. Graham Brown school, my very definition of American possibility, vision, and hope. My prayers continue to go up, for all, especially those that love that school.

I was telling my mother that in 1992, as a 19-year old studying Literature of Exile and the Black British Experience in London with Dr. Carol Boyce Davies, everything about my world changed for the better. It was 28 years ago when Ronnie King was beaten and flames of frustration went ablaze across Los Angelas. Friends and I sat in a tiny flat on Wigmore Place with a small t.v. watching as things unfolded. I said, "We will return to a different America." My friends said, "No. This is the America that has always been." That time in London with individuals from so many backgrounds changed my perspectives and understanding forever. Reading Carol Boyce Davies scholarship and being led into colonial and post colonial histories offered me an early chance to see global inequities, injustice, frustrations, crimes, and systemic power structures that maintain it all. As a 19-year old, I learned that my upbringing and safety in a working class suburb of Syracuse, New York was only one reality in this complicated, unfair world. I made the decision not to squander my college experience, and turned my mind and pursuits towards understanding it all. I began to read, to talk, to embrace, and to read, and talk, and embrace again. Surrounding myself in a culture of sameness no longer appealed to me; rather, my mind was empowered through embracing others.

I've always known I'd teach, and it was Dr. Davies influence on me that inspired me to work in urban school districts. Fortunate for me, I found employment at the J. Graham Brown School with a mission for diversity, equity, high standards for all kids, and social justice. That beautiful, quirky, hard-working, forward-thinking school was the epitome of what American COULD be if energies, focus, and purpose were invested onto youth...all youth. Ah, but it was a small, spoiled experiment that only benefited a few kids each year. With a mission of representing all the zip codes of Louisville and its drive to encourage young people to be political and proactive, and its quirky sense of humor and relaxed atmosphere, it was a highly unusual location. Inevitably, I fell in love with everything about it. Seeing it marked as it was from the protests, simply had me shaking my head. While there, I recognized my luck and fortunes. Upon leaving, I began seeing why schools like that should be everywhere; in fact, they should be our cultural norm.

In this month's Journal of Adult and Adolescent Literacy, my teaching friends William King and Jessica Baldizon, helped me to respond to a special request to outline some of the work we've been able to do at the Connecticut Writing Project at Fairfield University. Since 2014, we've established Young Adult Literacy Labs - summer programs for youth where we mix communities, promote writing, and offer the best of young adult literature, teaching, instruction, and collaboration. Our article, "We are all Projects....Together we're Strong," begins with a musical verse created in collaboration between the heterogeneous medley of young people we work with,

We’re all citizens. We have a voice. In our democracy, there’s always a choice.

We are all projects, making our way—finding these voices, having our say,

writing our lives, and singing this song,

divided we’re conquered, together we’re strong.

Everything about the writing: the years it took to build, the influence of the Brown School on the work's design, the ritual of hosting the programs each summer, and the absolute investment in young people from multiple backgrounds feels ironic right now during a pandemic and with social unrest. Anyone who has ever taught in urban schools - any schools - understands the frustration, aggravation, confusion, emotions, and complexities of what is going on. 

Black Lives Matter. They always have. They always will. The fact that so many in this nation can't bring themselves to say it, and continue to justify actions against Black populations that are unfair, unjust, and wrong, and continue to come to the defense of the very individuals who intentionally act against Black populations infuriates me. The teacher in me wants to figure it out, and I realize it is the failure of our schools. It is also the failure of parenting. It the failure of adults. It is the failure of us, as citizens, to work effectively with policy makers and politicians to rethink, redo, rework, and reimagine the very institutions that keep the tremendous inequities thriving. 

Last night, Chitunga and I built a Saturday night fire and stared into it with one of our neighbors. Our fire was in the back yard and not on our streets. For this we are fortunate.

We didn't start the fire

It was always burning

Since the world's been turning

We didn't start the fire

No we didn't light it

But we tried to fight it

I thought about that ol' Billy Joel song, the fact that Chitunga's Master's ceremony regalia arrived in the mail yesterday from LeMoyne, two weeks after he was supposed to graduate, and that a whole generation of young people who have worked hard are cheated out of the very rituals they deserve. It's not right, and these young people are recording everything at this moment in history, especially the animosity, blaming, and hypocrisy of adults before them who have allowed this world to be presented to them. They see. They know. And the best of them, like Chitunga, will move forward to bring a better world. 

I could never bring damage to another's property, but I can understand rage and frustration. Angela Collett Parsons, Principal of the J. Graham Brown School, posted these words about the moment right now, with photos from the protests,

This is the condition of the J. Graham Brown School and Ahrens this morning. Prayers for everyone. Stay safe. Black lives matter. 

Do not make any negative comments about the protesters on this post. #BlackLivesMatter 

Just a point of clarification for those who don’t understand why I don’t want to see negative comments about the protesters. I support peace and discourse in all instances. However, I would never put greater importance on a building than on people. Our school is not this building; our school is made up of a diverse body of beautiful souls. Some of our school family is suffering as are members of our greater community. The suffering of people angers me, not this vandalism. I would never support vandalism, but we have greater problems in our community upon which we need to focus. Negativity and condemnation of those suffering is not a solution.

Without a solution, I chose to teach. I put my efforts forward through my actions and I will continue to do this forever and for always. I realize this is true of others, as well, and for as long as I've been alive I watched how others act and do. Actions have always spoke louder than words. If I still resided in Kentucky, I would be there, at the school, helping the Brown community do whatever it needed so that the integrity and mission of that building could continue. I would advocate for my students, teach diverse books, and hold the academic bar high for all. I would fight ignorance, promote democracy, and work to make America what its mission statement has always been since the beginning (and not only for the the White few). It's Humbled Togetherness - Ubuntu. As an individual, I can only be so much...in a community of other individuals, however, the work we can do can be amazing.

It's time we show the world what amazing should really look like.

My love and support to all who are hurting right now. A special hug and round of applause for Louisville Council Woman Keisha Dorsey. Seeing you in the news, advocating from your heart, speaking for the people, and trying to help the city heal has brought tears to my eyes. I knew in 2003 the special human being you were always meant to be (you remain the student I wrote the most recommendations for). I'm proud of you, just as I'm proud for anyone and all who are doing right for the world with love, respect, hard work, and human compassion.

Phew. There's much work to be done, and that begins today.

Thrilled to Be Part of Another NWP #TheWriteTime - This Time with Erika Sánchez and Janelle Quintans Bence

After Sandy Hook
teachers put pens to paper, simply,
hands of children,
to write their way towards healing,
to find love,
to process hope.

I walked upon a green bathroom
in Binghamton
when a trigger was pulled...
a kid, a daughter,
a girl at school  
bringing the credits to her story.

At the top of the stairs,
a security guard and I 
ran to the shot,
I was told,
stay in the hall.

I didn't listen, followed,
saw the red splattering of sadness
splashed upon sinks, floor, and mirror.

A week later, teachers put on leave
for allowing teens to write about their friend,
this child, this daughter,
this girl. 
Writing sorrow, they were told,
inappropriate for school,
"Let them heal on their own."

That memory, a wound in my heart,
 prompted today by Janelle, Erika,
while thinking about words, a catharsis,
& how many police them,
keep them from paper,
as if life doesn't exist.

That's what I wrote in a notebook yesterday, once prompted by author Erika L. Sánchez and teacher Janelle Quintans Bence in a recording of #TheWriteTime, not knowing that the writer was also a prolific poet, with an incredible resume of writing excellence (Definitely click the link to check out her talents).

"Immigrant children don't learn what their parents went through," she said during the interview, and it Julia didn't see her parents as human, as real, until she went back with them to Mexico. I wish children were taught to cultivate, rather than destroy," she said while talking to Janelle.

The book, I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter, a National Book Award finalist, was the latest YA novel featured in our series. And it was a heavy day, difficult to discuss words, achievements, teaching, and hope, when all of us were watching hopelessness cascade in our news feeds, televisions, and lives. Perhaps this is why their question resonated with me - Write about a time when writing was cathartic...healing. I remembered the suicide of that young woman, its impact on the school, and the awful way administrators handled it (I seriously think there's a class in administration land on how to lead like a douchebag - it must be mandatory). After the recording, I went on an Erika Sánchez reading binge and  this poem resonated with me...thinking about that young woman at a Binghamton High School that I didn't know, but happened to meet through chance.

Six Months after Contemplating Suicide

BY ERIKA L. SÁNCHEZ

Admit it — 

you wanted the end 

with a serpentine 

greed. How to negotiate

that strangling 

mist, the fibrous

whisper?

To cease to exist 

and to die

are two different things entirely.

But you knew this, 

didn’t you?

Some days you knelt on coins 

in those yellow hours. 

You lit a flame

to your shadow 

and ate

scorpions with your naked fingers.

So touched by the sadness of hair

in a dirty sink.

The malevolent smell 

of soap.

When instead of swallowing a fistful

of white pills,

you decided to shower,

the palm trees

nodded in agreement,

a choir 

of crickets singing 

behind your swollen eyes.

The masked bird 

turned to you 

with a shred of paper hanging

from its beak.

At dusk, 

hair wet and fragrant,

you cupped a goat’s face

and kissed 

his trembling horns. 

The ghost? 

It fell prostrate,

passed through you 

like a swift 

and generous storm.

I am so blessed to do the work that I do. And yes, Janelle...Erika...writing heals. It's a way out. 

Oh, I Am Excessive @WritingProject, and Twain's Words Resonate with Me on this Friday. Wiping Away My Darlings.

I keep telling myself I need to stop my 12-hour writing days, but because writing is only one of my jobs, I have to get it in during the small windows that present themselves (like the weeks between the spring semester and that of summer). I took full advantage of the fact that I wasn't robing for commencements, attending galas, and celebrating like normal. As sad as it is, I saw it an an opportunity to get on top of writing projects.

Today, I resubmit one of them, and the entire time I kept thinking of Kelly Chandler Olcott preaching, sans Faulkner, Stephen King, Goldberg, and Lamont: Kill your darlings. In fact, Kelly taught me the craft of creating a bucket document to cut and paste all that you once loved, but need to dish to the side (cough cough...someone needed to help this man who overwrites everything - in Kelly's words, "I've never met anyone who writes their way into knowing more than you.")

My first draft of a dissertation was over 600 pages. I was told I was destroying her and would definitely anger my committee..."Get it under 300 pages and we'll talk."

Such a good lesson. Similar to the undergraduate professor who assigned 10-pages, only to hand the papers back and tell us "get it to a page in 24 hours."

It takes me a while, but I learn.

This week, I've been pruning, redirecting, cutting, and repositioning my words on a piece that I'm sort of liking now...since I've trimmed so much of the fat. The first draft was evidence for the court...almost 25 pages writing my way into understanding why I was writing such a piece in the first place. That's trimmed away. I'm closer to the meat of the writing.

I suppose it would be comical animation to see my composing processes in a fast-forward, sketching, drafting, writing, deleting, editing, revising, deleting, editing, writing, revising fashion over the several months it takes to get one piece even considerable for publication. I can say for sure that it is rare that a first attempt every looks anything close to the final one that eventually gets called to be accepted.

I will send this puppy off today, and immediately jump on the 2nd writing project I've been working on over the last few weeks, fully knowing that my life disappears again Monday, when I begin teaching a research course (only to be followed by summer literacy lab work in July).

It is true. Writing is easy for me. It's the crossing out that kills me....perhaps the phase we ignore the most with our students. How else will they come to a similar epiphany unless we expect them to experience all the writing processes?

TGIF. Once again, TGIF.