Mark on Trial

He admitted to the mistake

A grave misstep

But they wanted more.

The people. For the people,

We needed more.

The courtroom lined with concern.

Citizens. Concerned citizens,

Who themselves checked

The culprit’s innovation  

Moments before.

Checked to update the people

So they might know

How concerned they stood

Of the people, for the people

Lead in with procession,

He at fault.

For not understanding the power

Of information

Their information, our information

Handed over to become his

Information. But it wasn’t.

It was ours and so, stolen.

For this, he was summoned

Hair cut, suit trim. Sandals gone

Hoodie gone.

The casual shroud so infuriating

Gone at last.

You know you messed up Mark?  

“Yes”

But we don’t think you know.

“What else must I say?”

The people flinched unsure,

Certain only that

The culprit must both pay and cure.

To accept fault wasn’t enough

Regret either;  

How does one quantify the contrition  

Of failed prophecy?

The concerned citizens stood unconfirmed

Yet they stood sure the man

gifted himself abiding wealth

As the keeper of our integrities

Self appointed! we claim.

We, the appointees.

Famous men we love to raise

To praise the ways they fall.

So falls the man that curated

Our faces, places, and words

For weren’t affirmations

Positive connotations

And Favor so vital

To both expose and not return?

So we take it back.

You, me, the people.

The promise was not kept, Mark.
Loneliness ever present,
Exposure not controlled.
It is now your turn to fall
From that exalted mold.

Badges of Courage

Yesterday I told one of my classes Haley’s story. It was the first time I’d done that with a group of students,
and part of it felt wrong. Maybe it felt wrong because we were supposed to be discussing
the Red Badge of Courage. It was a Friday though, and half of the class was gone anyways.

Maybe I told Haley’s story because Red Badge of Courage brings me back to her every time I read it. The novel is one of the most realistic yet difficult coming of age stories I’ve read. It is about being young and stupid in a space that distributes real consequences. Henry is young, narcissistic, and entirely consumed with his appearance of bravery. None of these adjectives describe Haley, but in many ways I feel that eighteen year old Haley was the embodiment of one Henry longed to be.

Yesterday, Haley's story came spilling out of me faster than I could catch it; I realized it is difficult to tell the
story halfway. Their eyes were more captivated than I’d seen them all year. Most of the girls grimaced, buried
their heads in the arms, and looked away when I shared the details of Haley’s injury. They all looked at me
with eyes that spoke of thought.

What would happen if that was my best friend? What if I was a teammate? Why is the coach still there?
What if I was Haley? Would I surrender and take a semester off?
Would I try to push through the pain in an effort to prove myself to everyone who loves me but also has
expectations?

One of the girls simply said, “That is just so hard. I mean, it’s life changing.”

“Yeah, yeah it was,” was all I could say.

I knew I'd lost control of the story when it took a cathartic turn when I shared I often go back in memory and
wonder why I didn’t do something to get her help sooner. All of the students shook their heads.
One said, “It’s not your fault.”

“I know,” I said. “I know,” I silently thought again in echo.

It was the Goodwill Hunting moment for which I'd prepared through countless hours of education professional
development, but it was not as expected.

Maybe I hate Henry Flemming because I’d like to think I’ve outgrown the way he acts and why, but I haven’t.
I still want to be a hero, but I am too consumed with thoughts of my own glory for that to become reality.

I didn’t tell Haley’s story yesterday because I thought it was a great way to share my wisdom. I told it
because I needed them to know that growing up means meeting machine like battles that you can’t control.
Sometimes things work out and bravery ensues, other times you leave alive but altered.  

Elementary School Walls

I once went back to my old elementary school. I believe I was a few years since my “graduation,” but the time frame of the memory is hazy. This I remember with absolute clarity; I felt big.

Not in a figurative sense, I quite literally felt that my body had grown. Actually, I lied.  My initial thought was the oh so human deduction that the school shrank. How many times since have I formed assumptions based on that exact line of logic. There was no way I am the modified element, I never change as an individual.  

I remember stretching my arms out wide. One hand touched the very same painted cinder blocks that likely supplied all of my childhood illnesses. The other was markedly closer to the other side than it was when those walls grew familiar. Surely, the halls condescended. There was no way I was ever that small.

Strikingly, my feet almost entirely filled the colored square floor tiles. That was not possible. How many times had I cautiously placed my feet within the grout lines to avoid a mid line step? My feet had never been in such peril as they were a few sizes bigger, and well within danger.

I remember commenting to my mother, “I feel like the school shrank.”

I half expected, and in many way hoped, that she would confirm my underlying theory that indeed, it was a strange anatomic phenomenon, but it was a thing. Elementary schools shrink after a few years, nobody knows how it happens.

Instead, she laughed and said, “Yeah, weird right?”

My spirits sank a bit at her response; just a bit. I was forced to accept the fact that my elementary world view was distorted because it was formed by a small body and a growing mind. It was not as I thought it was, it was much smaller.

That is when I realized that small things quite literally seem big to children; like school, blockbuster, fairs, grocery stores, a car trip to Washington DC. It was difficult to accept that children was a noun that included me.

As I’ve grown older, I like to think that I have moved past mourning the loss of pride that inevitably follows a realization of naivety. In a few years, I will likely realize that statement is a paradox in and of itself.

At this stage in my life, the world seems boundless. On good days, my potential feels as mammoth as the amount of art I never took the time to appreciate when I lived in Italy. I see children passionately caring for things I deem small and unimportant. I see young adults caring for things that I presume out of their reach and unattainable. I see old people seemingly revert back to their childhood status of living largely in small spaces. What I mean by this, is caring passionately for things I judge to be small and unimportant; like town hall meetings, and ushering church services.

I wonder if I am on the inexorable track headed for ambition, disillusionment, and a reversion to simplicity. I wonder if the timeline for human wonder and growth, so repeated in literature, is worth relinquishment. All of the similarities of the human condition that draw me in admiration to art and history sometimes feel like a trap. I am afraid that one day I may wake up and realize that I am not special at all, but just another member of the human pattern.

I think what I mean by this is I am afraid that in time I will find the world small again. I know that most modest matters aren’t actually small at all; but right now I can not grasp that fact with my heart. Admittedly, at this stage in my life, I want to fight and emancipate myself from small walls. More likely than not, I will soon realize that I was not only formerly a child, but am still a small body with a growing mind forming distorted realities.

Poem during a hurricane. Irma, to be exact.

You made small talk for the first time since May. 

I felt sentiments of the aboriginal pull

You’d been to the institution I’d loved 

We planned to go together, you remember? 

That plan was long before I could conceive 

I’d hold more contempt for you 

Than I’ve felt for a breathing soul.

You broke me, for that I hate you. Remember? 

The rancor was new, now grown mundane 

It is easy to hate you I do not see

Yet your face was pained this night 

Your life, an impetuous romantic, the same. 

I remember. 

You, ever bound to your elations 

Sent me from my antagonistic perch

I know not the pain of such stagnation 
As you; bound to souls to steadily besmirch

Words I've been liking lately

One of my students picked this out for a Harlem Renaissance project, and it gave me chills as she read it to the class.


A Song to a Negro Wash-Woman
Oh, wash-woman
Arms elbow-deep in white suds,
Soul washed clean,
Clothes washed clean,—
I have many songs to sing you
Could I but find the words.


Was it four o’clock or six o’clock on a winter afternoon,
I saw you wringing out the last shirt in Miss White
Lady’s kitchen? Was it four o’clock or six o’clock?
I don’t remember.


But I know, at seven one spring morning you were on
Vermont Street with a bundle in your arms going to
wash clothes.
And I know I’ve seen you in a New York subway train in
the late afternoon coming home from washing clothes.


Yes, I know you, wash-woman.
I know how you send your children to school, and high
school, and even college.
I know how you work and help your man when times are hard.
I know how you build your house up from the wash-tub
and call it home.
And how you raise your churches from white suds for the
service of the Holy God.


And I’ve seen you singing, wash-woman. Out in the backyard garden under the apple trees, singing, hanging white clothes on long lines in the sun-shine.
And I’ve seen you in church a Sunday morning singing,
praising the Almighty, because some day you’re going to
sit on the right hand of God and forget
you ever were a wash-woman. And the aching back
and the bundle of clothes will be unremembered
then.
Yes, I’ve seen you singing.


And for you ,
O singing wash-woman
For you, singing little brown woman,
Singing strong black woman,
Singing tall yellow woman,
Arms deep in white suds,
Soul clean,
Clothes clean,—
For you I have many songs to make
Could I but find the words.
         
  -Langston Hughes






I love the way he puts words to gentle dignity. I love the call to simplicity.
I used to describe myself as simple, at least I would after Italy. When someone first called me simple in Italy, I was shocked; in English, simple usually means simple minded.
That isn't what they meant at all. In Italian, simple is a way to describe someone who is more or less down to earth and content in their own skin. It is a word to say someone is easily pleased, in a good way.


I take much pride in being down to earth, at least I did. I've realized that I am far less simple these days. It is like pulling teeth to forgo a night of socialization to stay in and do work or just be silent. I  crave any and all socialization, even if I know that it will leave me feeling unfulfilled.
I've shifted. Its most likely that this happened because after a year of so little interaction, I was desperate for freedom and attention. Still am, I suppose.


This poem made me think of where I was, and it makes me want to get back to that contentment and appreciation for quiet dignity; a contentment I used to feel with my heart and not just my mind, like I do these days.


I want to be like Hughes; wordless and in awe of someone who is tirelessly living their best self in less that ideal circumstances. I guess this would require me thinking outside of myself sometimes. I'll get there, it'll just take time.


Italy was a beautiful waste of time: Eri un bellissimo spreco di tempo.

Model Air Planes

Monday was David Scott’s Birthday. He turned forty eight, and Dave knew that because it would mean seven years now that he was no longer in the Air Force. Dave was never a birthday celebration man, and he was used to people assuming that birth congratulations could and should be kept to a minimum. Maybe it was his grand stature that kept the balloons at bay, or perhaps it was because his hair  never grew a millimeter past government regulation. Dave’s students knew it was his birthday because the principal regarded it in a morning announcement. It felt nice to have them know. Subtle spotlight can be tolerated by anyone.

Father O’Nolan discovered it was Dave’s birthday twenty five minutes after he said morning Mass. After this realization, Father O’Nolan’s quick wit brought him to the fifty year old model airplane that was resting on this dresser. He meant to finish it long ago, and he was sure that Dave would love it. After all, Dave was in the air force. People in the air force love air planes just as much as Irish priests with dreams.

Father O’Nolan knew that he had one hour to retrieve the present, so he ran home and carefully finished the stippling in egg shell white. It was perfect. Father O’Nolan knew that it was not proper Air Force protocol to deliver presents to one’s door as an over anxious boy scout, so he left it on the faculty table with a note written in green felt pen that simply said, “Happy Birthday Dave.” He didn’t sign it, but Father O’Nolan hoped his Irish p’s would be a proper identifier.

Father O’Nolan had many things to do that day, but he managed to schedule in twenty minutes of sitting in a chair by his model airplane gift. Every now and then a teacher would walk by and marvel at his generosity and kindness. It was nothing special, he said. He just loved planes, and this one needed a good home. He implored about the effectiveness of the stippling, as if a negative response could bring about the egg shell white paint in order to make corrections. Everyone agreed with Father O’Nolan's internal sentiment; it was lovely.

Father O’Nolan later found out that Dave left the school early for a round of golf. All was well, because Father O’Nolan had some business to attend to himself. He left his perch and went along. Perhaps the reveal could wait until tomorrow. It must, anyway.

The plane sat on the table for the entire day that followed. Along the line of time is disappeared. Eventually, the only evidence of its existence were faculty murmurings regarding Father O’Nolan's attention to detail. The murmurings  pleased him well enough.

Italian Memories Pt. 1: Flowers

I am going to do a series where I post a picture from my time in Italy and I tell the story behind it. This is in an effort of me trying to record these memories, mistakes, and joys as they happened and felt.

This was in May, the day Irene, Francesca’s daughter, was baptized. At this point I could understand little of what Francesca said, but I knew that I loved her because she loved me. She told me that she was nervous about the ceremony, and I could see it on her face and in the cake that may have been more elaborate than her wedding cake. I made small talk with her sisters that had very little in common with me beside the fact that we both somewhat wanted out of Italy.

Five year old Margherita then gave me these flowers. Our relationship was still in the stage of me being a novelty, and I was silly enough to think that meant genuine affection.

In Italian they say you are talking to the universe when you attempt to make sense of things that are bigger than yourself.

Laura and I looked over the mountainside balcony at the view of Cognola, and she asked me what I was going to do after Italy. I said I didn’t know. I would probably be a teacher, or  perhaps I would strike it lucky with art, but I would most likely be a teacher. She was quiet, and then then she said that she thought that must be an American thing.

“What,” I asked, “Wanting to teach and do art?”

“No,” she said, “It is American to say you know what you will do. Maybe it is because we have less job opportunities here, but Italians are never certain they will be anything. I think we are more realistic. I’ve met other Americans this way, and I’m just noticing the connection now.”

“So Italians never say that they want to do a certain job?”

“Not really. They have a direction and follow what they like, usually.  Mostly they just take what they can get. For us it is harder to be as particular like you guys.”

“So did you always want to be an economics professor?”

“Oh no. But I kept studying, taking the next step, and this is where I am. I am very lucky you know. It is a wonderful job, but at your age I would have never  said that this job is what I wanted to do. I suppose I’m asking why you young Americans are so certain of what you want.”

This jolted me from my placid mountain gaze. I was brought back to my elementary school classrooms in career week where my seven year old self watched parents stand up and explain why their life choice was the best life choice. They solidified their vocation as the best way to help humanity. What are you going to be when you grow up? It was always a choice.

It was like deciding to eat the doughnut I just bought from the bakery. Choosing the correct purchase was the hard part; once I picked and paid, everything fell into place. Why would I second guess my ability to eat the doughnut once it was allegedly mine?

As I felt  universe was pulling me out of my comfort level  into a new realm of self actualization, I replied, “I don’t know.” I had to stop there for a moment, because that is the best thing to do when I'm not sure what to say.

I tried again, “ It might be the way we are raised. It always felt like it was a choice we had to make and it would happen. But perhaps reality doesn’t work like that.”

That night was the first of many when I felt small.