Barrett, J. (1998). Things that are Most in the World. New York, NY: Aladdin Paperbacks.
A mentor text for ideas and word choice, this book presents ideas about the wiggliest, smelliest, jumpiest, things in the word. By combining silly images and words the authors stir up some imaginative ideas and phrases. The text can be used as an example of superlative adjectives and includes a blank page at the end where students can extend the text with their own “most” ideas. Appropriate for grades K-4.
Berger, M. (1995). A Whale is not a Fish and Other Animal Mix-Ups. New York, NY: Scholastic, Inc.
A mentor text for organization and expository writing, this text compares two “like but often confused” objects or concepts and describes their differences by direct comparison. The text has a table of contents, headings and subheadings, label captions, and a conclusion, allowing it to serve as an example of expository organization. The contrasting information shared about each pairing can be used as a springboard for students to write an informational piece about two objects or ideas they commonly confuse. Appropriate for grades 4-8.
Hoose, P., & Hoose, H. (1998). Hey, Little Ant. New York, NY: Scholastic, Inc.
A mentor text for voice and persuasion, this text is written in an alternating conversational pattern between an ant and a boy, both arguing why they should or should not squish the ant. The illustrations match the perspective of the teacher, making it a strong example of an effective picture book, as well. Appropriate for students in grades 2-6.
Huliska-Beith, L. (2000). The Book of Bad Ideas. Boston, MA: Meghan Tingley Books Little, Brown and Company.
A mentor text for ideas and voice, this text is written from the perspective of a group of kids willing to share their experience with ideas they thought were good at the time. Illustrations help to exaggerate the result if ideas such as “#450: taking your super-duper triple-decker ice creat cone on a roller coaster – splat!” Very kid-friendly themes ooze voice and can be used as a springboard for students own “bad idea” writing. Appropriate for students K-6.
Leedy, L. & Street, P. (2003). There’s a Frog in my Throat! 440 Animal Sayings a Little Bird Told Me. New York, NY: A Holiday House Book.
A mentor text for word choice, this text serves as a dictionary of sorts, defining 440 animal idioms with illustrations. This book can be used as a resource when coming across various idioms in text, particularly for ELL students, or as a source of inspiration to increase word choice variety in one’s own writing. Appropriate for all grades.
Moss, M. (1998). Rachel’s Journal: The Story of a Pioneer Girl. San Diego, CA: Siler Whistle Harcourt Brace & Co.
A mentor text for voice, organization, and historical fiction, this text is written from the perspective of a pioneer girl and details her adventures as she travels across the country in a covered wagon with her family as she records them in a personal journal. The first entry actually appears on an index card inserted into the book giving it a very “authentic” feel and is dated March 10, 1850. The author’s note describes the process of gathering artifacts from various primary sources to create Rachel’s voice and therefore serves as model to students of the writing process as it unfolds for a published author. Appropriate for grads 4-8.
Shannon, G. (1996). Tomorrow’s Alphabet. New York, NY: Greenwillow Books.
A mentor text for ideas and organization, this unconventional ABC book portrays each letter of the alphabet as representing what it will be tomorrow rather than today. For example, B is not for Bird but for Egg, as tomorrow’s Eggs will be Birds. This text could be used as an idea generator for poetry, as a model text for one’s own inventive alphabet, or as an example of the effectiveness of repetitive text structure. Appropriate for all ages.
Truss, L. (2006). Eats, Shoots, and Leaves: Why Commas Really DO Make a Difference! New York, NY: G. P. Putnam’s Sons.
A mentor text for conventions and editing, this text demonstrates the difference a comma can make in a sentence. Each two-page spread demonstrates the same sentence with different punctuation and an illustration to match each. For example, “Slow, children crossing.” vs “Slow children crossing.” Appropriate for students in grades 2 and up.
Van Allsburg, C. (1984). The Mysteries of Harris Burdick. Boston, MA: Houghton Mifflin Company.
A mentor text for ideas, and short-story writing, this book actually begins on the book jacket, where the story of the included illustrations is described. Unsure if the story is factual or fictional, the reader then discovers a series of 14 drawings, each with a title and a single caption. Chris Van Allsburg challenges the reader to solve the mysteries of each picture, which serve as story starters for young authors. With no right answer to be discovered, solutions can be created and recreated over and over. Amazing black and white sketch illustrations can’t help but inspire ideas! Appropriate for grades 3-8.
Viorst, J. (1993). Earring! New York, NY: Aladdin Picture Books.
A mentor text for voice and persuasion, this text details the plight of a young girl begging her parents to allow her to pierce her ears. Offering various promises and deals to her mom and dad, this little girl’s relentless voice provides a humorous example of persuasion and a model for students to write their own persuasive piece. Appropriate for grades 2-6.
“I don’t want to go,” Hannah said as nicely as possible. She was concentrating on making her face look as serious and innocent as possible. She even made sure that her hair looked somewhat under control in a nice ponytail instead of the frizzy and unkempt look she usually walked around the house, and well everywhere, with. Looking at her parents, her mind went directly to that overly decorated house full of people in a ridiculous amount of folding chairs and paper plates full of food on their laps. Having to spend the entire night with everyone smiling at her family awkwardly, wondering what they could possibly be doing there. “Remember, Grandma said I didn’t have to go either, she doesn’t even want to be there. She doesn’t want to spend Thanksgiving in a house that is ninety percent strangers and the other ten percent relatives we try to ignore all other times of the year.”
“Hannah, sweetie, why would you want to spend Thanksgiving alone? Don’t you think you will be bored or lonely? You can’t even call up a friend to talk or hang out with because they will be with their families. I think you will regret it later on, but most importantly, I think you should just suck it up and go,” tried her mother, “how awful can one night of a home cooked, actually nicely catered, Thanksgiving meal be?” Hannah’s mom was getting less and less patient with her trying to skip out on the holiday. It was Hannah’s first Thanksgiving Break from college, and she had been angling to somehow get out of this “family” holiday since the moment she stepped on the driveway. her mother’s patience was disappearing by the minute. Figuring she was loosing chances, Hannah went up to her room to formulate a new plan.
Thinking up new plans made Hannah tired. Later, after waking up from a nap she left her childhood room, still pink, which oddly enough was a color she was never fond us, to see what there was to eat. Before she made it to the top stair, she heard her mother and father whispering behind their slightly cracked open bedroom door. “What does it matter? Just let her stay home. She is only home from college for a few more days. I just don’t think it matters that much,” said her father.
Hannah had to give it to her mother; she had a strong counter argument. “You are always talking about how important family is and this is your family! Your sister will be there. When our daughter has her own family, do you want her to just run off and do whatever on holidays, ignoring us? This could be setting a precedent.”
Hannah loved her immediate family very much; it was her aunt, uncle, and cousins she could do just fine without. While she understood where her mother came from, she knew her father did not see it the same way. He, like Hannah, did not care at all about his sister, Hannah’s aunt, and the rest of them. Never seeing them again would probably make no difference to him. Hannah’s aunt had been causing problems for all of them for too long. Hannah had been thinking lately that it would just be easier to faze her aunt out; it would mean significantly less stress for everyone involved. Plus, Hannah always thought her aunt didn’t like her and her brothers much anyway. Hannah gave up hope that her aunt would acknowledge or care that she graduated high school over a year ago and was now in college hundreds of miles of cornfields away.
“Hannah!” her father yelled for her. Hannah tried her best to make it appear she had just woken up, her hair always helped in that. “I know you do not like your relatives and while I think this is a bad idea, your mother and I decided you are old enough to think for yourself and if you do not want to go to Thanksgiving dinner you do not have to.”
“When did we decide that?” Hannah’s mother shouted. She could see the anger in her mother’s face that a decision was made without her and right in front of her. Their family always had a voting system and since there were five of them one side always came out on top. That’s how they finally got the dog when Hannah was ten. It took years for Hannah and her father to convince her younger brother to vote on their side. But, majority wins. Never before had one person just made a choice without considering the opinions and feelings of everyone else. Hannah immediately had mixed emotions. She could spend Thanksgiving however she wanted, but she knew she would soon hear a shouting match between her parents and it was all her fault.
A few days later when Hannah’s family left for Thanksgiving dinner in a house full of mostly strangers, her mother did not even say goodbye. Part of Hannah could see where her mother was coming from. She had no family to be close to if she wanted to. She knew her mother wanted her to have people to connect with and call family. On the other hand, she could not see what the big deal was. Hannah’s immediate family and grandma were enough for her. Relatives, her relatives, always complicated things.
Hannah had planned this evening and dinner ever since she found out she didn’t have to go with her family. The best plan she came up with was to just do nothing, then eat, then do nothing again. Since her cooking skills were extremely limited she decided pasta would be her Thanksgiving dinner. Her parents hadn’t even thought to get something Thanksgiving-like for her or help her make something, but that thought made her feel selfish so she immediately tried to forget it. Eventually, it made her happy to think she was having something that was so anti-Thanksgiving. She thought about the catered and impersonal meal, served buffet style, her family was having at the house full of strangers. She thought about how her parents and brothers would find some random nook to eat in together because there was no room left at any of the tables. Holiday seating always made her family seem like an after thought. At home, she had the whole table to herself and the dog knew better than to beg for food from her. Hannah’s thoughts did wander from her family to loneliness to relief at having dodged an uncomfortable dinner. At least at home she got to watch television during dinner. Holiday programs were starting and Hannah saw there were many programs she could choose from.
After dinner, Hannah headed to her room to watch A Christmas Story. She had recently learned that the boy did not actually shoot his eye out and had promised her friend she would watch the whole thing for the first time. She was determined not to chicken out this time. How bad could it be? Yet, even the thought of the kid shooting his eye out freaked her out once more and she had to resolve to try again another year.
Since Hannah was home alone, for how long it would be she did not know, she decided to entertain herself with her new favorite pastime. Ever since her senior year of high school, Hannah had become obsessed with looked at old family photos and watching old family movies. Most likely, she thought, it was because she was growing up and moving on or she missed her childhood. She had watched her dance recitals, her older brother’s soccer games, her younger brother’s band concerts, and video of all three of them just dancing around in the family room. Hannah looked at photos of family vacations and vacations they took with family friends. The families in the photos, she thought, always seemed more like family to her than the people she was blood related to. The people in the pictures were always there for her, her brother and parents. They acknowledged graduations, birthdays, triumphs, were there when things were not so great, visited after surgeries, took to activities, babysat, and encouraged. Maybe, she got to thinking, that she did not want to go to this Thanksgiving dinner not because she did not like her extended family but because they did not feel like her extended family. The people in the pictures she was holding and videos she was watching really were her extended family in every sense of the word. She had emotional connections to them, which had to be thicker than blood.
Hannah got to thinking about the fits, however misguided; she had put up over the years for having to go to family holidays. She probably could have just sucked it up, as her mother wanted her to, but then she never would have discovered who her true extended family was. Maybe she could spend Thanksgiving with all of them next year.
Part 1 June swung her bare legs back and forth as she sat on the front porch swing. Sweat trickled down her back as she watched the heat shimmer down the dusty dirt road. Her stomach oscillated between butterflies and nausea. “June,” her mother called from inside, “The postman won’t come until at least 3 – same as every day. Get in here and watch Willy and Bruce for me while I get the noon meal ready.” June sighed, calculating how much longer she would have to stand her rambunctious younger brothers and their incessant questioning, and wondering if today the postman would bring the answer. “Coming, mama” she called as she peeled her sticky legs off the swing and headed inside. The air inside hung heavy with the scent of peeled carrots and boiling potatoes. June found her brothers, Bruce and Willy, dissecting a grasshopper in the bedroom. Bruce was an eight-year-old whose feet were covered in perpetual cakes of mud. Willy, age five, was similarly disheveled and followed Bruce like a shadow. “Cool, look at its guts!” yelled Bruce as Willy peered over his shoulder. After a few moments of silent inspection, Willy noticed June’s presence in the room. “Junie, why are its insides that color?” he questioned. “How do grasshoppers jump so far?” “Well,” June began, “I suppose that’s the way God made them. And they probably have to jump that far to get away from birds trying to eat them.” “Oh,” said Willy, “Well…then why do rabbits jump so far? Who are they trying to get away from? And why don’t they jump away from Daddy when he’s going to get one out of the hutch for Mother to fix for dinner?” “What do you think?” June replied. This was her favorite question-avoiding strategy. As much as she loved her brothers, she hated the monotonous days on the farm, digging potatoes, feeding rabbits, and tending to Bruce and Willy. Things had become worse since graduating high school in May. While she had previously been able to escape during school days, immersing her mind in French conjugates and mathematical equations, the days now dragged on forever in her unoccupied mind.
Bruce, satisfied with the scientific progress he had made with the grasshopper, now produced a worm. He let Willy begin the inspection. Noting that both boys were sufficiently engaged, June reached into the back of her dresser drawer and found her stationary set and ink pen. “Dear Tynne,” she began in her best penmanship, “I hope this letter finds you well. Mother and Daddy are fine, and Bruce and Willy have been busy investigating whatever they can find and generally getting into trouble. I have been eagerly awaiting your response to my last letter. I hope you didn’t find it too bold of me to ask about your spare room. I know you and Evart were just married six months ago, and are still settling into your home in Lansing, but I can’t stop thinking about the extra, empty room you described as I lay smushed between the boys and try to fall asleep each night. Tynne, you are my sister but also my dearest friend, and you know I have always had dreams bigger than McBain, Michigan. As I mentioned before, I will find a job to earn my keep, plus help you around the house. Please write back quickly – even if it’s a no – so I am not stuck in limbo. Your loving sister, June” June folded the letter, placed it in an envelope, and sealed it shut. “Dinnertime,” she heard her mother yell as she set the envelope down on the shelf. The next few hours were a blur of eating, washing dishes, and supervising Bruce’s feeding of the rabbits and chickens. Just as she was headed back inside to help with supper preparations, she saw the dust rising down the road. Sprinting like a fox on the chase, she began the quarter-mile trip to the mailbox. Halfway there she realized she’d forgotten her letter. “Oh well,” thought June, “I’ll just mail it tomorrow.” Beating Mr. VanVleet to the mailbox, she hunched over to catch her breath as she willed the postal truck to move faster. “Hey there, June,” said the postman. “Beat me to it again, I see. Well, today I think I might have what you’ve been waiting for.” As he handed her the envelope scrawled with handwriting so similar to her own, June saw two futures flash before her eyes. In one, she was a tired, haggard-looking farmer’s wife with three scrawny children running underfoot. In the other, she was a svelte, sophisticated city girl in a fashionable coat, walking to her job downtown. Realizing the full weight of the contents of the envelope, she tentatively slid her finger under the sealed flap. THE END
Life is a series of moments. Most of which pass us by, some creating memories, helping us learn lessons for the future, or making us smile when we thing of good times passed. Others, few others, change the course of our lives in a much greater way. Friday afternoon, December 14, 1998 was one of those moments. I had registered for the Discovery in Service course for a few reasons. One, it was offered during 6th and 7th hour, so on the days that you were not “discovering,” you could leave school an hour early. And two, hands-on community service was an important part of the process for many of my upcoming scholarship applications. Basically, it would look good on my resume. The premise of the class was simple. Spend three afternoons a week out in the community providing some kind of service to those in need. Could be a hospital setting, a special education school, or a home for the elderly. Then, come back to the classroom and share your experiences. Seemed basic enough. Mr. Heneghan was the director of the program and therefore determined your placement for the semester. After taking into account your own interests, your responses to a written survey, and his own prayerful reflection (this was a Catholic high school, remember), we held a prayer service at which time everyone was presented with their assignments. Mr. H had written them on a quarter slip of paper with the Discovery in Service letterhead across the top. He handed me my assignment, and at the time I wasn’t really concerned with what it said, as long as it said the same thing as Joe Skibinski’s. We had agreed to ride together if we would be working at the same place, and my hourly earnings at the Dairy Queen would appreciate the savings of carpooling. I put the assignment in my back pocket, and took off for the weekend. Joe and I were both assigned to SpEED, the Special Education Co-op a few miles from campus. I was placed in a classroom of seven deaf autistic children while Joe would work with students who had more severe medical needs. During the course of the school year I went from pretty frightened by my surroundings to excited by the gains we experienced together and the classroom community that we created. At the end of the semester I thanked the teacher, hugged my students, and called the University of Dayton to change my major. I was no longer interested in pursing the career of a journalist. I was impassioned by children with special needs.
At the end of the summer as I was packing for college I came across that slip of paper with Mr. Heneghan’s ornate handwriting. I realized then that his decision to place me at SpEED had changed the course of my professional life. I put the paper in my wallet and left it there, taking it out from time to time when things got difficult, always remembering those first seven students. I changed my major from special education to early childhood with an emphasis in early intervention, graduated from UD, transferred my license to Illinois, taught first grade in Gurnee and then received a third grade position in New Lenox. Eight years later, I once again found myself face to face with Mr. Henaghan. This time, it was my brother’s graduation we were celebrating. Dan and Mr. Heneghan had worked together more consistently during Dan’s high school experience, and the two had kept in touch during his four years at West Point. Dan invited Jack to his graduation, and Jack gratefully accepted. While eating lunch in the Mess Hall on post, waiting for the pomp and circumstance to begin, a conversation ensued about the lasting effects teachers have on their students. Jack was so moved by Dan’s invitation, and wanted him to know how few and far between those formal moments of recognition are in the life of a teacher. I took the opportunity to create one more. I opened my wallet and handed Jack the tattered piece of paper I had carried with me for so long. With tears in his eyes he accepted it, and I thanked him for giving me the opportunity to become a part of the profession that would make such moments possible.
My name is Max. I turned five years old last month. I have brown hair and blue eyes and mom says I get taller and taller everyday! I like baseball, trains, building forts in my basement, playing on the computer, Super Heroes, and I even like this boy Marcus in my class who pushes everyone (most kids don’t like him). BUT, there is one thing that I do NOT like … Vegetables!
It seems like everywhere I go somebody is trying to make me eat vegetables! Carrots, broccoli, cucumbers, green beans, spinach … they follow me around all day. At lunch: “Want some carrots?” says the lunch lady in a grumpy voice. “No thanks,” I reply. After school snack: “How about some cucumbers with Ranch?” mom asks chipperly. “I’ll pass, mom.” Dinnertime: “Max, you have to eat your green beans or there’s no dessert,” dad demands. That night I sat at the dinner table for three hours, THREE long hours. I never got dessert.
Dad whispered to mom (maybe they thought I couldn’t hear), “Max is one stubborn boy.” Maybe they think I don’t know what stubborn means, but I do and I’m not stubborn- I just don’t like vegetables! Why doesn’t anybody believe me? How come no one understands?
It cannot be possible that I am the only human being on the planet Earth who absolutely, positively, 100% does not like vegetables! At night when I try to fall asleep all I can hear is: “Max, just try it, you might like it!” or “Max, carrots make you see better. Eat your carrots,” and of course, “Max, if you want to be big and strong you better eat your vegetables!”
Then something changed. I woke up one Saturday morning around 8 o’clock and I walked downstairs into the kitchen. I peeked my head this way and then that way and did not see anybody else nearby. “I wonder where everyone is?” I thought. It’s not usually so quiet in my house. One thing I knew for sure was that I needed some breakfast!
I opened the refrigerator and… “AHHHH!” I screamed! The whole refrigerator was filled with vegetables! No milk, no yogurt, no eggs, no Jell-O just vegetables, vegetables, vegetables! I was about to slam the door shut when I heard: “MAX! Wait! Don’t close the door, just give us one minute!” A red pepper was talking to me. This was absurd! “Please, Max. This won’t take long!” Shouted a shiny green cucumber. “Well… well… okay,” I said, “what is it? What do you want to tell me?” I was very curious and confused.
“My name is Brian Broccoli and I brought along my friends Carol Carrot, Sammy Spinach, Pete Pepper, and Carl Cucumber. We are here to rescue you!” Brian Broccoli stood front and center in my refrigerator to deliver me this message.
“I don’t get it! Rescue me from what? I just don’t like vegetables –no offense- I never have and I don’t think I ever will,” I told them truthfully. I shrugged my shoulders, put my head down and I was about to shut the refrigerator when Carl Cucumber stood up tall and said, “Max, we understand that sometimes we may taste bland.” “And some people overcook us and then we lose our color and shape,” interrupted Pete Pepper. “And it’s ok, Max, if you don’t like all of us,” added Sammy Spinach. “But, what we’re trying to tell you, Max, is that we aren’t going to give up on you and we want you to know that even Super Heroes eat vegetables!” Brian Broccoli told me with confidence.
I looked around at all the vegetables sitting in my refrigerator. They starred back at me with warm, fresh faces. I started to feel like these vegetables really did understand me, like they really cared about me. Maybe I should give vegetables another chance.
Mom walked into the kitchen a few minutes later and I was sitting at the table eating a bowl of carrots. “Max! You’re eating vegetables, I can’t believe my eyes!” My mom said cheerfully. “That’s right, I sure am,” I told my mom but I’m not going to tell her about the talking vegetables in the refrigerator. That will be our little secret.
The Lake A continuous blue stretched all around Elizabeth as she treads water. Joyful screams and laughter echoed in the distance. Gasoline fumes streamed through her sinuses as she tried to situate the crooked 4-foot boards beneath her. She heard her brother’s voice pricking her eardrums. “You won’t be able to do it. You’re only eight!” Elizabeth despised being told what she could or could not do and wanted nothing more than to prove her skeptic wrong. Deep down, she wanted to accomplish the impossible before her brother. “Are you ready, Lizzie?” “I’m nervous.” “Just keep your arms straight, your knees like springs and let me take care of the rest,” yelled her Dad 30 feet ahead. “Ok…go?” she responded, questioning whether she was truly ready or not. Elizabeth heard the motor accelerate before she felt her arms jerk forward. She was only able to hang on to the handle for a second before she saw it bouncing off the water in front of her. The boat her family was in circled back immediately. Elizabeth’s mom had been watching like a hawk and screamed the second she realized there was no skier behind the boat. As they came closer to Elizabeth’s original location, she heard her brother laughing. “Nice going!” Michael chuckled. “Keep it up and we’ll be here all day.” “Shut up. I didn’t know it was going to pull that hard.” “Hold on to the handle and just let the boat pull you out of the water,” said her Dad as he straightened the bow. Elizabeth watched as her parents, her safety net, drifted further and further away with every inch the rope leveled out. This time, she wasn’t letting go. “Now are you ready?” called her brother, mockingly. “GO!” she yelled with more confidence.
Again, Elizabeth heard the hum of the engine grow louder, knowing that any second her ability to move in the water was no longer in her control and she would have to use all of the muscles an eight-year-old had to accomplish this feat. Slowly, she felt herself making small ripples in the wake behind the boat. “Keep your arms straight,” she remembered her Dad saying only five minutes ago. Elizabeth sat on the skis in the water, holding on for dear life as she felt the acceleration from the boat. In an instant, Elizabeth was face down in the water with her legs stretched out behind her, slapping the water at every bump. Lake water rushed into her mouth and nostrils, but she refused to let go. With the next hit of a wave, Elizabeth felt the ski on her left foot slip off. She wasn’t going to take her hands off of the handle. Water continued to hit her face like a ton of bricks and she could do nothing but hang on and close her eyes. Elizabeth didn’t want to make the same mistake as last time. Suddenly, she felt her arms bend and her body grow still. When her Dad realized Elizabeth didn’t make it up, he slowed down and turned the boat around once again. What seemed like ten minutes of being drug across the water for Elizabeth was merely ten seconds for her spectators. “Honey,” said her Dad, “if you’re face down, it’s ok to let go. There is no sense in hurting yourself. I’m going to circle around to pick up your ski and bring it back to you.” Elizabeth watched as the boat sputtered past her to pick up the evidence of another failed attempt. “There is so much to think about,” Elizabeth said to herself. “Arms straight, knees bent, let go if I have to.” When her family returned, Michael threw the ski out to Elizabeth. While she flopped around in the water like a fish trying to put it back on, her Dad asked, “Do you know what you did?” “Yea, I held on too long.” “No. You stood up, but you leaned forward. If you do that, you’ll go down face first every time. Pretend you’re leaning your back against a wall.” “Great,” Elizabeth thought. “Now I have to remember to lean back on top of everything else. This is impossible!” Elizabeth situated herself to be pulled up by the force of the boat in front of her, calling out to her Dad that she was ready once again. But again she fell. Up, down, up, down. Growing more tired with each attempt. Her body began to feel like Jell-O. Elizabeth’s Mom pleaded for her to climb into the boat and try again tomorrow. She looked up at her brother sitting in the boat with his hands folded behind his head, grinning at her. Elizabeth knew that Michael couldn’t wait for his turn to get up on his first try and rub it in, just like he did with his first homerun in little league.
“Can I please try one more time?” Elizabeth begged. “One more time,” her Dad replied. “As the boat accelerates, just stand up. It’s as simple as that.” “Yea right,” Elizabeth thought. “If it’s so simple, I would have been able to do it already.” She positioned herself one last time, keeping her arms straight, holding the handle of the rope in between the points of her skis poking through the top of the water. The waves from other boats and accomplished skiers zooming past her, made it difficult to keep the skis from crossing. Elizabeth bent her knees to ensure that she was nearly sitting on the backs of the skis under the water. “Here we go,” she thought. “I can’t wait until tomorrow, and I’m going to beat him at something.” Elizabeth remembered everything her Dad had told her. He knew what he was doing. She remembers watching in amazement earlier that summer when her Dad skied slalom behind his friend’s boat with only one ski and no hesitation. That’s what she wanted, but not to that degree. Elizabeth didn’t want to be greedy, just reasonable. Two skis? Was that too much to ask? As the boat yanked her out of the water, Elizabeth remembered to keep her arms taut and let the boat pull her to a standing position. At first she wobbled, trying to maintain balance and keep her legs from drifting further and further apart. If she let that happen, for sure she would fall down and her moment would be ruined. After ten seconds of awkwardness, Elizabeth realized what she had done. She was skiing, just like her Dad, and before her brother. Her knees bounced, absorbing the shocks of the waves. Elizabeth was too nervous to look away from her hands holding the rope handle. However, as she focused her eyes on the boat before her, she saw her Mom waving with joy, her Dad nodding with pride, and her brother clapping with excitement. Oh, no! A wave!
Role of the Writer: Who or what are you? Audience: To whom are you writing? Format: In what format are you writing? Topic: What are you writing about? Why? What’s the subject or point?
R = Me, remembering an odd person from my hometown. A = People who aren’t from the town. F = Memoir/remembrance. T = Recalling the past, and what it takes to leave home.
“What Happened to James Wiseman?”
Part One
Out of the blue I happened to think about him. I remember the last time that I saw him was the day of the barge crash, so I started looking in Google, which listed 320 with his same name living in the United States. After reading the descriptions, I went to the images section, because no one sounded like him. He wasn’t there, either. Neither was he on Facebook, but I wasn’t surprised about that. If the world contains 320 people named James Wiseman, and 319 have Facebook pages, I know with certainty the one who did not would be the James Wiseman from my hometown on the banks of the Mississippi River, two miles south of the I-80 bridge between Iowa and Illinois. The James I knew possessed no motivation to be known by anyone, his desire for privacy reinforced by the many hours he spent fishing and trapping alone along the river. Now in 2011, James has contentedly been able to disappear into the plain sight of a world where invisibility is nearly impossible, thanks to Google and Bing,
But back on Father’s Day 2000, long before Facebook was invented, I was visiting my hometown of Hampton, Illinois. Our family dinner was over, and sitting on the front porch river-watching with my aunt and uncle was a long-standing tradition. We were chatting about this and that, when suddenly we noticed a large barge moving rapidly (for a barge) towards the shoreline of the river. I went down to the riverbank for a closer look, and began to run. Nobody else from my family, sitting back on the porch, seemed as excited as I was, moving quickly down First Avenue, eyes on the barge, obviously moving closer and closer to the shore. As it neared the very bank of the river, I stopped and watched breathlessly as it destroyed a wooden dock with a boat tied up to it, halted by its collision. Then, all of a sudden, James bolted out the back of his house yelling and shaking his fist at the barge for destroying his property. Having barely ever heard him speak, it was amazing to hear him agitatedly swearing at the barge as if it could hear him.
James was certainly a fixture of the town: youngest son of Olive and M. F. “Doc” Wiseman, the town doctor, who even after retirement still treated a select group of aging town matriarchs who considered him to be the best doctor in the world, even though everyone knew his old-fashioned methods had probably led to a few medical mishaps. (My family went to his younger brother Carl, who practiced out of an office in Moline, rather than making house calls like M.F.)
When I think back, probably the first time I ever saw James was in church. I was just a little girl, and he was probably five to ten years older than me. Every Sunday he accompanied his mother Olive, nicknamed “Holly” (who was my first grade Sunday school teacher), to both Sunday school and the worship service at the Hampton United Methodist Church. His father and older brother never joined them. He always wore a suit in cool weather and a white shirt with a tie and slacks in warm weather. They always sat in the back row on the south side of the aisle. Come to think of it, when they were alive, you rarely saw James apart from one of his parents. You really didn’t see Dr. and Mrs. Wiseman together all that much, either. On the surface of things, he must have been a comfort to them in their old age. Yet, sometimes I wonder why he was the way he was. Did he have some kind of personality disorder? Or was he just quirky and introverted?
Just because you grow up in a small town, it doesn’t mean that you know everyone well; however, you do know everyone superficially, at least. Sometimes, certain eccentric individuals almost seem like storybook characters, especially after the separation of time and distance in your memory. In my remembrance, James had a rather somber presence that was mildly startling. After reading David Copperfield in the sixth grade, I was certain that James could play the character Uriah Heep, based on his appearance, and I often thought it whenever I saw him. His [Uriah’s] face was quite as cadaverous as it had looked in the window, though in the grain of it there was that tinge of red, which is sometimes to be observed in the skins of red-haired people. It belonged to a red-haired person—a youth of fifteen, as I take it now, but looking much older—whose hair was cropped as close as the closest stubble; who had hardly any eyebrows, and no eyelashes, and eyes of a red-brown, so unsheltered and unshaded, that I remember wondering how he went to sleep. He was high-shouldered and bony; dressed in decent black, with a white wisp of a neckcloth; buttoned up to the throat; and had a long, lank, skeleton hand, which particularly attracted my attention, as he stood at the pony's head, rubbing his chin with it, and looking up at us in the chaise. This could describe James nearly exactly, except that his blazing red hair stood straight up from his forehead about two inches. Never was a hair out of place, nor did it ever seem longer or shorter than any other time. His eyes had a piercing quality, but they were usually looking away from you, as if he could see something in the distance that required his full attention.
He was often seen around town riding an old, but sturdy, black bicycle with a tan, leather seat. The two baskets attached to the rear bumper contained his fishing gear, the pole jutting out at an angle. On his head he wore a green Australian-style hat, one flap turned up on the side, and loosely tied beneath his clean-shaven chin. He usually wore a military green t-shirt and pants, and a pair of greenish gray Wellingtons. If he wasn’t on his bicycle, he could be seen out on the river in his flat-bottom boat, which he used to fish and lay his nets. He could make his own fishnets, which he would sometimes demo at Historical Society festivals. I still have a shopping bag made from the nets he wove for one of these events.
Once, Doc and James, after traveling the length of the Mississippi River, traveled together down the Amazon River in a flat-bottom boat. Story has it that James met a young native woman on that trip and married her, but we never saw her in town. They were known for their fishing, and many a fish fry in the town was supplied by Doc’s expertly filleted catfish, fried up and served with corn bread and coleslaw for five dollars a plate; lemonade included.
The day of the barge crash, James appeared to be living in a remodeled, light blue house with white shutters, located down on First Avenue, not far from the Historical Society building. It looked well kept up. At the time of the accident we did not know that the barge pilot had suffered a heart attack, dying at the wheel, causing it to leave the channel and hit the riverbank. I was so thankful that I had traveled there that day and was witness to it. It was one of the most exciting things I recall happening in my small river town. It would have been a shame to miss it. Sadly, it took a man’s death and nearly catastrophic barge accident to finally stimulate some reaction from James. Regrettably, I heard later that he was so disgruntled by the incident that he moved away. It is not known if he contacts anyone in Hampton. Always an introvert, I don’t think I ever spoke to him beyond “hello.”
Even though I looked for James on the Internet, I am glad I did not find him. By remaining elusive, his Facebook profile picture, or random shots from his trip to Peoria for a family wedding don’t distract me from the James I remember. I’d rather call to mind his old-fashioned ways, imagining him still weaving his nets and catching fish in some distant river, a flowing river more home to him than the solid ground of the village where we grew up.
I watched as my niece Kelly skipped ahead of my sister and I, who were both bogged down with chairs and coolers. Kelly was carrying her brother’s icy blue Gatorade bottle in one hand and a gift for her grandfather in the other. We were headed towards the pee-wee football field to meet our family for my nephew’s game.
Usually Kelly ran to the sidelines to deliver the drink to her brother and then met up with the rest of us spectators, but today she had another plan. She was radiating excitement. Today had been “F Day” in preschool and she had made a special “F is for Football” collage just for Papa.
She seemed to spot him near our normal location alongside the fifty yard line, so her skip became a run that bee-lined toward him. He had on jeans and a striped polo shirt, but he wasn’t wearing a cap today. The little bits of gray-white hair, which could be found only on the very top of his head, blew around in the fall wind. His eyes were focused on the players warming up on the field. Her grandma sat in a chair next to him and she seemed to be talking as he watched.
I knew there was something odd about that picture, even from far away. My dad never sat down before, during, or after Kyle’s football games. He was too excited. Also mom had given up trying to talk to him during sporting events a long time ago. I giggled to myself and then shared a smile with my sister. We watched Kelly make an error we had made before.
Kelly got to him quickly, slung her arms around him and planted a big juicy kiss on his cheek. But before she could even pull away to show him her art, a deep, booming voice came out of Papa. He said, “Thanks for the kiss, Kelly. I haven’t seen you since you were just a baby!”
She thought about that for a minute. That wasn’t Papa’s voice. Papa had seen her two days ago. She was puzzled. She hopped off his lap, glanced at him, then grandma, then him again.
It looked like Papa, but…
She dropped the bottle and her prized artwork and ran towards us screaming. “I kissed THAT guy that looks just like my papa, but THAT GUY is NOT my papa!!!”
My sister tried not to laugh as she put her stuff on the ground to lift Kelly into her arms. Kelly was in shock and tears were starting to fall down her face that she was burying into her mother’s shoulder. Her mother stroked her back and began to comfort her.
“It’s okay Kell-Bell. That’s not your papa. It’s his twin brother. Remember how we said that Papa’s brother was coming to visit? He’s your Uncle Al. They look a lot a like.”
Her head popped up a bit and she wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. She looked over to me and I smiled at her. “Papa and Uncle Al are twins, that means that the look the same,” I told her.
She looked back over at that guy who was not her Papa and saw a lot of our family standing around him. The she looked back at me.
“Really? That guy is Papa’s brother?”
“Yep he sure is,” I said and my sister shook her head in agreement, still stroking Kelly’s back.
“He looks like Papa, but he DOES NOT sound like him!” she exclaimed.
I laughed. “You’re right again. That’s one way that I learned to tell the difference. I did the same thing when I was little.”
“Me too,” said her mom. “I think we all did at some time or another.”
“Did you kiss him thinking he was Papa? Cuz he is NOT Papa!”
“No,” we both said and then laughed, which seemed to upset Kelly.
“I don’t remember this,” I said, “But Grandma likes to tell a story about me coming into a room when I was little and seeing Papa and Uncle Al together and then running out of the room screaming and crying because I was so confused.”
Kelly started to laugh a little. “And Grandma used to kiss Uncle Al by accident all the time when they were young and she and Papa were first dating,” added my sister, who was in the process of lowering Kelly to the ground. This seemed to make her feel better; at least Grandma had been fooled too. “Let’s go say hello to everyone and see where Papa is.”
Kelly spent the rest of the game telling EVERYONE how she kissed “the guy who looked like Papa, but was NOT Papa!” That night was a lot of fun, reuniting with our family visiting from Ohio and swapping stories about being fooled by the twins.
I knew that my dad being a twin was a special gift for all of us. He always had another guy somewhere that looked just like him and had been his best friend since birth. We all had a guy in our lives who looked just like our dad, papa or whatever we called him. This guy, Uncle Al, had the same receding hairline, deep blue eyes, taste in clothes and music, obsession for sports, and love for us, even though he was a little taller and his voice, a lot deeper. I’ll always remember the day of Kelly’s snafu. When it comes to mind, I’ll be wishing I could remember the times when I was confused by the two that always looked identical. But mostly, I’ll be wishing that someday my own children would get to look from their grandpa to Uncle Al with a look of bewilderment. But Uncle Al has passed away, so there will be no more kissing the guy who looks just like Papa. Papa will need a lot of kisses now.
Spanky Moves To the City Spanky is a big bulldog. He has spent his whole life in the country. In the morning when he wakes up, Marlo, the mom person, opens up the back door. Spanky runs outside. He runs and runs, as fast as his little legs will carry him. He especially loves to run in the tall grass. It makes him feel like a coyote on the prairie. He sniffs at all the wonderful smells in the back yard: squirrels, raccoons, and deer. Sometimes, the little person, Danielle, comes to play with him in the yard. They run and run until Spanky decides to take a nap in the sunshine. When Spanky is bored of being outside, he trots back to the house. He whines at the door. Marlo lets him back in. Then Spanky goes down to the basement. It is dark and cool. He has his own couch with a blanket just for him. He curls up and sleeps away the morning—as bulldogs like to do. One day, Spanky heard a lot of noise upstairs. He went up to investigate. There were boxes everywhere. And there were men are carrying the boxes to a truck. “Come on,” Marlo said to Spanky. She put a collar and leash on Spanky—“it’s time to get in the car for the big move.” Spanky pulled against the collar and leash, but that only choked him and made it hard to breathe. Marlo loaded Spanky and Danielle into the car. Spanky looked out the window as Marlo drove. He saw his favorite fields disappearing. There were houses and big buildings in the distance.
There were a lot of cars. They were honking and buzzing by the car window. After a long time, Marlo pulled up in front of a tall building. It had three windows stacked on top of one another. Marlo unbuckled Danielle and pulled Spanky’s leash. He jumped out of the car, but she wouldn’t let go of that leash. “Ack!” he thought, “she’s choking me.” He pulled and pulled, but Marlo made him sit right next to her. Then another dog came by. He was with his person and she was holding a leash too. The dog barked at Spanky—he sounded mean. . “Yikes!” thought Spanky. He hid behind Marlo. Spanky didn’t know if he liked this dog so he barked back, “Go Away!” Then Marlo tugged Spanky to the door of the tall building. When he got inside the door, he couldn’t believe his eyes. There were stairs as far as he could see. They went up, and up, and up! Marlo told him to go, but Spanky didn’t know if his short little legs could go all the way. When he got to the top and went around the corner, THERE WERE MORE STAIRS! When he finally got to the top, Marlo opened the door and he and Danielle went inside. There was only one couch. Where was Spanky’s couch? Where would he nap? “I don’t like this at all,” thought Spanky. Spanky wanted to see the yard. He whined to go out. Marlo said, “Ok.” She picked up his leash and held Danielle’s hand. They went back down all those stairs. When they got outside, Spanky waited for Marlo to take off his collar and leash. But she didn’t. She just started walking him down the block.
Spanky hated his collar, it made him itch. And with the leash, he couldn’t run like he used to. Marlo walked him around the block. When they got back to the tall building—the apartment building, Spanky realized he would have to climb all the stairs again. Spanky didn’t know if he could do this every time he wanted to go out. Back inside, Spanky looked around for a spot to nap. Danielle spread his blanket out on the couch and patted the seat next to her. “Wait,” thought Spanky, “I get to nap on the same couch as Danielle!” Spanky jumped up on the couch and snuggled in next to Danielle. “Hmmm,” thought Spanky, “maybe this isn’t so bad!” When Spanky woke up, Marlo called him. She had his leash in her hand. Spanky and Danielle trotted down the stairs. Outside, the three of them set off down the block. Spanky found lots of new smells, and some of the same ones from the country! Rabbits, squirrels, mice…he sniffed every tree and patch of grass. While they waited for cars at the corner, Spanky sat down to rest. Marlo scratched his ears. “Mmmmm, that feels nice,” thought Spanky, “I could get used to this.” And so Spanky became a city dog. Sometimes, he even found a patch of tall grass to wade through, just like a coyote.
“How did I get here? What did I do wrong? Bad things do not happen unless you do something wrong…right?” There I sat, telephone in my hand, trying to speak, but the words would not come out. Each time I tried, choking, sobbing, but no words. Words were impossible. Nothing in life prepared me for this.
Feeling trapped in my wheelchair, I barely noticed the beeping machinery, the tangle of wires surrounding me, the flurry of doctors and nurses. I looked down and stared at the antiseptic linoleum floor, anything, just to gain the ability to speak. I think to myself, “So this is what it feels like to have lost all control.” My husband slowly takes the phone out of my hand, careful not to disturb the IV, and calmly begins.
“Hi Mom and Dad. Yeah, they just transferred him to the Special Care Unit. They said they need to run some more tests. We should know more tomorrow.”
Hours later, I am still sitting. I look over and through the dim light. I see my husband dozing off in the teal plastic chair on the other side of the incubator. It is just after midnight and the nurse tells us we should go upstairs now. Reluctantly, I allow my husband to wheel me out of the unit. “Don’t forget, if he starts to cry, you can always call me. I’ll be right upstairs. I know how busy you are.” The nurse gives us an experienced smile and says we can come back any time we would like.
Early the next morning, I am back. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE TEST RESULTS ARE NOT IN YET!!!” An obviously less experienced nurse attempts to explain that these tests are never back so quickly and I must be mistaken to think so. In response, I somehow manage to push open the door, slam it shut, and wheel myself into the elevator.
Several minutes later, there is a knock on my hospital room door. The director of the neonatal unit walks in. “How are you?” she gently inquires.
“I’m fine,” I weakly reply. “I apologize for causing a scene. I’ve never lost control of myself like that before. I don’t know what happened.”
“No need to apologize,” she responds. “You have been thrown into a world that you didn’t even know existed. I just wanted to be sure you were O.K. The tests results will be in tomorrow.”
My husband I spend the rest of the day and most of the night taking care of our son in the Special Care Unit. Somehow we make it through the night. Early the next morning, we are back. This time, I am very calm as the nurse tells me the doctor should be in soon with the test results.
Several hours later the doctor enters the room. He is a redhead, like my son, and I feel an instant connection. “Your son is going to be fine.”
“What?” I ask, astonished.
“The tests have come back negative and your son is fine.” “When can we take him home?”
“Tonight! Your son is a Free-man.”
We brought our son home that night, one week after his birth. In one week’s time I had gone through major surgery and days of an extremely high fever. I had experienced a roller coaster ride of emotions ranging from pure elation to utter despair. I was physically and mentally exhausted. That evening, I tucked my son to sleep, in his very own crib for the very first time. I experienced a sense of peace, strength, and love I could have never imagined. At that moment, I knew more than ever, life would never be the same.
Bag This is the bag full of my stuff clenched tightly in my father’s hand It swings back and forth like a pendulum as he storms down the sidewalk and I try to keep up He finally stops and hands it over to a woman I’ve never seen before “Take him. I don’t want him anymore.”
Door Please door stay strong Don’t give into his punches I know they are hard but in time he will tire, the intensity fades Just try to hold on You’re the only thing that can keep me safe
Pelvis In the most difficult times she maintained her strength When I cried she always told me “You have to have faith” That’s what pulled her through and I have it, I do But only because it’s tattooed on my pelvis
Bathroom When sit in darkness and gloom I often wonder why did I inherited my mother’s tendency to lock herself in the bathroom and cry?
Bed When all is said and done I just want to fall asleep I do not want to think I want to accept defeat Hidden under the covers of my bed To me that is my sanctuary
Tree I chose this quiet tree near the football field to hang peacefully to silence the chaos I feel from my mother’s constant exchanges of me for money
Suit The only person who truly felt I was special is sleeping in a suit I will never hug him or talk to him again he meant more to me than anything I wonder if he knew
Paper Difficult things are inescapable For a while they may remain Unbreakable But sadness is not my fate So I’ll put everything on this paper and let It carry their weight
Robert looked out the window of his ranch house, through the bushes at the empty street and thought, “why me?” His dog Holly, an overweight beagle, brushed passed his legs. Her crooked tail wagged back and forth at an erratic pace and Robert reached down to pat the top of her head. His black dress pants had bits of her fur stuck to them. As Robert reached down to brush them off he looked over his carefully put together ensemble: dress shoes and socks, red button down dress shirt, and red suspenders with Santa Clauses on them. He put these clothes on earlier that day after he had showered, shaved, and carefully combed his long hair from the far right side of his head over to the far left side of his head. Now all he could do was stand there in his brown, drab living room with his head hung low and his shoulders slumped recalling the sizable error he had made earlier that day.
A tear slipped down the cracks of his wrinkled and slightly leathery face. Just as it hit the corner of his mouth and he was able to taste the saltiness the phone rang. “Hey dad. I heard you are all dressed up with nowhere to go.” His daughter Janet always tried to be comforting. Sometimes he appreciated this style of banter. It made him feel almost normal or, as close to normal as he could be lately.
“Hello Janet. Yes, I can’t believe that it is not Christmas day. I guess I will have to get up and do this all over again tomorrow.” Robert could hear a little chuckle but, he mostly heard a dismal sounding sigh.
“Ok dad. We will see you tomorrow. It will be like the movie Groundhogs Day. You will get up and do the same things all over again: shower and shave, put on your holiday clothes, drive over to Rita’s, and she will bring you out to our house for the celebration.” Robert wasn’t sure if she was making a joke this time or if she was worried that he wouldn’t remember to do all those things tomorrow. Maybe she thought he would show up without pants.
“Bye Janet. I will see you tomorrow…with my pants.” “What?”
“Never mind. See you tomorrow.” He hung up the phone, grabbed a cold Bud Select out of the refrigerator, lit a cigar, and headed down to the basement family room. Holly followed along and jumped onto the overstuffed chair in front of the TV. Robert picked up a stack of photos pushed Holly aside and took his place on the well worn cushion. He loved to go through the photos and remember every detail about every event that he could. He loved recalling the funny, happy, and even sad moments of his life. He loved to wonder about what roads lay ahead for his precious family members. This ritual could last long into the night. Robert loved to make it last knowing that is was a good distraction from his current reality. He knew that if it was too quiet he would think about himself. He hated feeling sorry for himself. He didn’t like wondering why something like this had happened to him. And most of all, he hated wondering when he wouldn’t be able to wonder about anything, anymore.
My step dad Mike knew how to throw parties, and boy was this 4th of July party the best, that is until it ended. Fireworks spangled in the air, burgers grilled ‘til almost midnight, music blared and children ran amuck. Mike yelled at me because I threw his friends son into a vat of ice, “hey that’s where snotty kids belong,” I told him as I ran before I could get myself into more trouble. That night was spectacular but it ended for me by heading to bed, being that I was sixteen with my first job I knew I had to go to bed in order to be up early the next day. The party for my parents however kept on going, this is where my party and unfortunately for Mike it truly ended. The next morning music rudely blasted into my eardrums announcing it was time to catch the bus. I dressed and I ran upstairs, the telephone rings… “hello?” “It’s Dave, is your dad up?” “Let me check,” I answer. I quickly rush into the living room where normally even if Mike went to bed an hour previously, he would be up, yelling for a sandwich and some Rolaids. “No, he’s still asleep.” “Is he alive?” Dave asks jokingly. “Yea,” I reply. “He’s snoring.” Was he ever, there he slept in an overstuffed beige armchair head tilted back, leg crossed over the other, snoring like a beast was trying to be let out of a cage. “Well have him call me when he gets up, ok?” “Sure.” I answered as I scribbled a message on a nearby note pad and then bounded for the bus, so I wouldn’t be late. Work dragged, I was pre-occupied, I was a teenager and I was having teenage problems. After work I went to try and console my teenage problems by meeting up with a friend. We sat in the park and talked for hours, pretty soon it was getting late and I had a curfew I needed to get home by, besides the next day was another day of work. I made it home and while approaching the house I noticed how dimly lit the house was, there wasn’t a TV blaring, or kids screaming, matter of fact the only light on in the house seemed to be coming from the dining room. Upon entering the house my parents friend greeted me, I asked where everyone was, he told me my mom was at the hospital with Mike, and to call her, he handed me the number. “Is everything alright?” I asked. “You should talk to your mother.” He replied. As I looked at the number and contemplated what I might be facing, the phone rang. It was my mom, she explained to me that while I was at work, hours had passed and they tried to wake Mike up, he wouldn’t budge. They attempted several times before they decided they would need to carry him to the car and get him to the hospital.
At the hospital my mom explained the doctors ran several tests. He had overdosed the night of the party and as soon as he sat in that beige chair he had multiple strokes. He was in a coma and had no use of his brain if he woke up…”if” he woke up….. My mom said “a vegetable.” My head was spinning, how was this so? My brother wasn’t even a month old; he needed a father, my sisters? They needed their dad. He was lying in the hospital without any of us knowing whether or not he would make it out. My mom went to see him every day in the hospital, she shaved him and talked to him and brought taped recordings of my sister talking to him. It was confirmed he was brain dead, even if we woke from the coma, he would never talk or walk again, and my mother couldn’t afford the after care. He was on a feeding tube because he couldn’t feed himself. A few weeks passed and the moment came when a decision had to be made on whether or not he would remain on the feeding tube. They took him off. That night he came to me in a dream, and told me everything would be ok. He died three days later. My brother was only a month old, he would never have someone to play ball with, someone to teach him how to be a man, never give him advice about girls or how important school is. He would never walk my sister down the aisle or dance the father daughter dance at her wedding. He wouldn’t see me graduate high school or even college and he will never meet his grandchildren. Sometimes I wonder if things would have been different had he still been alive, sometimes I wonder if he was ever there at all or was he just a ghost?
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me. Kate sat at the kitchen table thinking about what she had yelled out, when the girls on the bus started to tease her. Kate thought about how such a lie that phrase really was. Who came up with that phrase anyway? To be honest, Kate’s feelings were hurt and the embarrassment she felt at school today was going to take some time for her to get over. She learned that the only way to stop girls like Tiffany and Tricia was to stand up to them, and have confidence in herself. She proved to that today when she finally stood up and defended herself against the two meanest girls in school.
The whole thing started over the attention she was getting from Eric, one of the boys that was in her second period Math class. It turned out that Tiffany and Eric dated for a couple months before they broke up, but it turned out that Tiffany wasn’t ready for Eric to move on and talk to other girls. This made Kate her new target for all her anger and she had no problems telling Kate exactly how she felt about her.
“Ok class have a seat and open up your books to page 153,” said Mrs. Anderson “today will be continuing or discussion on how to solve irregular fractions.”
As Kate was turning to the page, Amy taps her on her shoulder and passes her a note.
Roses are red Violets are blue Who’s the ugliest girl in school? Kate it’s you!!!!!
“Kate, are you paying attention?” Mrs. Anderson asks “Is that a note in your hand?”
“Yes, but I didn’t………”
“Stand up and read it to the class.”
“Can I just throw it away? I promise not to read notes in class again.
“That’s not fair, Mrs. Anderson, the rule is that if we get caught with a note we have to read it in front of the class.” Tiffany said in a vindictive tone of voice.
“You know the rules Kate, please read the note.” Mrs. Anderson repeated.
I knew I was going to die of embarrassment, but I began reading the words on the page “Roses are red, Violets are blue, who is the ugliest girl in school? Kate it’s you!!!!”
Just like I knew it would happen, the entire class began laughing. “Settle down class, we have wasted enough time” I could hear Mrs. Anderson over all the laughing. I could hear Tiffany and Tricia congratulating each other on a job well done. I had never felt so small or hurt in all my life. I felt like my heart was tight and it was going to explode in my chest. I couldn’t see anything through the tears that had accumulated in my eyes. I refused to cry in front of the class, so I asked if I could be excused to go to the bathroom. Mrs. Anderson nodded her head, and I could see the pity in her eyes.
While I washed my face, I decided that I was not going to let them hurt me like that again. They didn’t have the right to make feel hurt and ashamed of whom I was. I vowed that the next time Tiffany came after me I was going to be ready for her and her little sidekick.
You Can’t Hurt My Heart Continued- Part II You Can't Hurt My Heart Fadwa Rantisi I was dreading the bus ride home, because I knew that Tiffany and Tricia would choose that time to attack me again. It was the perfect setting; there would be a large group of spectators that had nothing better to do then watch their performance. They had another thing coming, if they thought I was going to let them take the leading role. Sure enough, as the bus was turning out into the street I hear Tiffany’s obnoxious voice.
“Did you guys hear about what happened in Mrs. Anderson’s class.” she said.
“I think you should tell us again, just in case everyone didn’t hear about what happened.” replied Tricia. “I mean we don’t want anyone to feel left out.”
“How about I tell everyone what happened, so they can get another perspective.” I said. I could feel all eyes on me. I’m sure some of them thought I was crazy, but I was determined not to let them get to me. “What happened in class today was that a very insecure bully and her little sidekick didn’t have the guts to come and tell me that Tiffany was jealous of my friendship with Eric. Each sharing half a brain, they got together and wrote a bad poem. I mean it could have least been more original, really, Roses are red……that is so last year. It turns out that the joke is on them……wait for it……….. I’m holding for dramatic effect…. Regardless of what you think of me or what childish prank you try to pull next, nothing you can say or do will ever hurt my feelings again. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.”
Tiffany’s face was bright red when she said. “I’m not jealous of you and Eric; in fact we are back together.”
“Yeah,” said Tricia “I heard him ask her out at lunch today.”
Everyone started laughing again, but I wasn’t going to back down at let her have the final word. “That’s ok I’m done with him anyway, help yourself to my leftovers.
Getting off the bus, I could hear the kids laughing and talking about how it was about time that someone finally put Tiffany in her place.
Overeducated and Unemployed: Not at all What Mama Talked About (Editorial in the Works)
By: Rachel Pomykala
Is one even able to count the number of times they have heard the words, “You can’t get anywhere in life without an education”? Perhaps Kanye had it right when he said, “You gotta get them degrees.” Whoever said it, and however it was said holds no meaning in this day and age. We have a crisis on our hands in our educational system, more specifically the public schools. I was among fifteen people at our school to have been laid off this academic year only a week prior to commencement. I was one of the few to actually speak in person to the principal; all others had to find out through a voicemail message. What were the real motives behind our being let go? According to the principal, it was a Human Resource (HR) decision. According to HR, it was a reduction in the budget. According to the news, we as educators are insufficient. Either way, this doesn’t explain why my position was filled by someone with fewer credentials at the point of hire, or the fact that someone who already obtained my current certificate was also let go. Seniority didn’t even play a factor in saving the Literacy Teacher’s position or the bringing back teachers that were untenured.
Why is that teachers like myself are finding themselves among the pool of unemployed teachers and bright-eyed newcomers, just trying to stay afloat? Is it of no worth to have a drive to immerse oneself in education and seek the specialization that it takes to meet the needs of our diverse population of students? What has become of our values in education and furthering our careers with intelligence? It is no surprise that the massive laying off of highly-qualified teachers is becoming a new trend in our school system. What are these factors in the hiring-and-firing process indicating to us about the route of our pedagogy? It seems that the underlying premise for this trend is no news to us. The same political underpinnings that have always steered our schools are continuing to hold reign to this very day.
After witnessing the amount of change that can happen to a school in a matter of one year, the aftermath can be devastating. It was in that short twelve-month period that a long-time principal walked away during the first week of teacher in-service, that we also received an interim principal that was the epitome of effective leadership, and ended with an underhanded Local School Council (LSC) decision to bring in a person with their own best interests in mind, staff included. Having been a product of the Chicago Public School (CPS) system, and planning my life-long career and my unborn daughter’s journey here, I had my mind made up. This situation has left me jaded in a way that stabs at one’s hope for a future. I am left with no choice but to make the decision of making a life for myself and my child, a decision perhaps outside of my comfort zone.
I read a portion of a memoir of a former boy soldier, Ishmael Beah, from Sierra Leone. Although he has turned his life around, he writes that he sometimes has nightmares of being murdered by other soldiers. I wrote this poem imagining the lasting psychological trauma that he may face. I wrote as if I had those experiences and if I woke up from his nightmare of being killed.
Waking from the Nightmare of a Boy Soldier By Betsy Serilla
And then I wake up, but for the time being, my state of consciousness matters not.
Sweat drips from my brow when I sit up, sizzling when it hits my heaving chest. Blood beats against eardrums, Teeth clench against teeth, jaw muscles taut from repeated abuse.
And then, as if the gun The white tablets The other boys Are still beside me
I yearn for the poppoppop of my AK-47— It was always louder than the blood rushing behind my ears I salivate for the white tablets— Enough of them would always keep me from dealing with the paralyzing tiredness that settles in when the anger/fear/hatred wears off I search for the boys Knowing too many are dead Will continue to become dead Before I can ever kill all of the ones who will kill them
Because you can take the gun from my hands
But you can’t take the Blood Sweat Screams Eyes wide Friends dead Innocence dead Dreams forever nightmares
I count minutes I wait days Holding my breath that you will return Then I remember your last breath in my arms that night For once it was me who held you For once it was you who was cold
Our last embrace I held you gently like I held our girls so long ago Rocking your spirit slowly to another life Humming prayers you'd find your way without me My aged hands smoothing your hair One more last time to remember White hair, coarse with age That cowlick still alive and well even as you lay dying
I watched you Each breath erasing more more color, more life, all pain My scream lay waiting Only whispers of love for you my dear But scream I do when I remember When minutes have passed each one a possible return, a return of you and still you are gone
Could closing the achievement gap be a question of motivation? - Part 1 An essay by Laura M.
The education dialogue in our country currently revolves strongly around improving teacher quality via various incentives and punishments. Often, teachers feel poked, prodded, measured, and intimidated by these new measures. However, at the end of the day, our students aren’t succeeding they way we would hope, and it is our responsibility to find ways to provide each child in our country with the education they deserve, regardless of their zip code. After five years of day-to-day experiences working in an under-resourced, low-performing public school coupled with two years of a master’s program examining quality practice (and the barriers to student achievement), I virtually always feel overwhelmed by the bleak prospects for improving teaching and learning, especially for the students who need it the most. However, and I’m surprised to be writing this, I recently read a brief by the Hamilton Project which left me with a real sense of excitement about the potential progress of our profession.
The piece offered prospects for elevating the profession by expanding the pool of people drawn to education via incentives for teachers in challenging situations and alternative routes to teaching. As an alum of an alternative certification program, I believe in the high-quality teachers they recruit and the work that they do. Programs like mine have a proven record of selecting candidates who are not only effective, but committed to the work of larger, systemic change. (As evidence, a large majority of my colleagues in my education policy fellowship were also alternatively certified.) Throughout my career, I’ve often felt belittled by peers from outside of the profession who comment on how “nice” it is that I teach on the south side, or how “fun” it must be, or who tell me how much they wanted to be a teacher until they “grew up” and decided to become a lawyer, consultant, doctor, etc. As a graduate of an elite university who chose teaching with intention, it’s frustrating to hear that other people with educations like mine would, currently, never consider the route that I took.
Could closing the achievement gap be a question of motivation? - Part 2 An essay by Laura M.
I must be clear, though, it’s only a very small part of me cares personally that others don’t value the work I do; instead, what bothers me most is to see smart, passionate, engaging people – people who students would be lucky to sit before every day – dismiss the notion that teaching would ever be a viable route for their lives. We must raise the bar and recruit quality teachers. But, how? I recently watched a video online compiled by the RSA in London which summarized an excerpt of a talk by Daniel Pink around his work on motivation (which is totally worth the ten minutes, though be careful of getting addicted to the RSA feed – especially the one on education paradigms! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u6XAPnuFjJc&feature=channel). It was in the back of my mind the entire time I read about the potential for incentivizing teaching in high-poverty schools. Pink’s work proved that significant incentives tend to work only when the task is simple; when a task is complex, people are far more motivated by autonomy, mastery, and a sense of purpose. (He did mention briefly, though, that all people should be well-paid from the get go, which would foster motivation, as well.) How can we attract teachers who will be driven by education’s great potential to help them find a purpose, make an impact, and become successful?
When I think about what has made me successful in my classroom over the years, so little of it has to do with any of my credentials. I decided to become a teacher after spending 3 years teaching writing workshops inside of Michigan prisons and juvenile detention facilities. Inside of those places, I saw the consequences of inequitable schools, poverty, and social injustice firsthand. I realized the great responsibility our schools have in ensuring that all students get a chance to find their meaningful, productive role in society, and how severe the consequences can be if a person doesn’t find these quality opportunities. The experiences I had during those years indelibly marked me, and I believe that they significantly impact my work as a teacher and my commitment to my students. Nowhere would this show up on current measures of my credentials, but that work definitely pushed me into education with a sense of purpose and the urgency to master my work. I saw how high the stakes were for kids. I’m left wondering, though, how can we find others with experiences like mine who are driven by their passion for equity and draw them into our field? And if others with those experiences don’t exist, is there a way to create chances for others to see how badly our schools need them and attract them that way? Could we suggest (or even require) all college students to spend time working in a community unlike theirs before granting them a degree?
Could closing the achievement gap be a question of motivation? - Part 3 An essay by Laura M.
At the end of the day, in the pit of our stomachs, we all know how important the work we do is. There must be a way to translate this to others meaningfully and persuasively. At this point in my life, whenever I’m met with another awesome person who says they wanted to be a teacher “until,” I always take the chance to urge them to reconsider; our students need them.
Never the Same Part 1 I sat on the edge of the stiff plastic chair, anxiously swinging my legs back and forth. Any second the door in front of me was going to open, and I was fairly certain that with it was going to come the news that my life was over. Dilemmas that consumed me only a few days before – which prom dress accentuated my curves in the right places or whose car we could use to drive down to Florida for spring break – now seemed a world away. I wondered what would happen to my scholarship to Tennessee. Hopefully they would give the money to someone else who needed it, who deserved it. Even if I could somehow still go away to college next year, I was pretty sure that they would revoke my academic award once they found out about the stupid decisions I’d made the last few months. Clearly I wasn’t the student they thought they were getting. As I was trying to recall the return policy for the bathing suit that I had recently bought but most likely would not be wearing any time soon, I heard footsteps approaching from down the hall. My breath caught itself in my throat, tied into a huge knot, and refused to budge. This was it, the confirmation of the truth that I had avoided for so long. I had noticed all of the signs, but had refused to do anything for the last few weeks, hoping that ignoring them would make them somehow disappear. “Hi Mya, I’m Dr. Robinson,” a young woman with a model-like build said to me as she entered the room. She was the most attractive Grim Reaper that I had ever seen. “I reviewed your chart and your blood work that the nurse took earlier and…” The knot in my throat tightened, making it impossible to breathe. Maybe I would suffocate before I even heard the news. No such luck. “You’re pregnant!” she exclaimed with a gigantic smile that I think was supposed to make me excited about the catastrophe, like when parents smile and clap when their baby falls in attempt to trick them from feeling the pain and bursting into tears. It didn’t work. I realized then that I had been holding on to some faint glimmer of hope that the five home pregnancy tests I took earlier that week had all malfunctioned. I let out a huge sigh and with it any hope that I would continue with my normal teenage life. “If this is the part where I’m supposed to squeal and hug you and tell you how excited I am, it’s not going to happen,” I said to her through watery eyes. I watched Dr. Robinson’s smile quickly fade. “There’s no expectation for how you should be feeling,” she said to me sympathetically as she handed me a tissue and a handful of brochures. “But you should also know that you have choices.” “Thanks,” I said, although I knew that all of my choices had already been made. This was now my reality and I had to start living it. I managed to beat my parents home and found myself simultaneously relieved and disappointed. I wasn’t sure how I was going to face the disappointment that I was going to bring to their faces, yet at the same time I wanted nothing more than to be held in my mother’s arms and be told that everything was going to be alright. How could I possibly be a mom to someone else when I couldn’t survive without my own?
Part 2 After sufficiently soaking my pillow with tears, I turned on my back and stared at the ceiling. My hands floated to my chest and found the silver heart that had been draped around my neck for as long as I could remember. “Is this how you felt?” I said aloud into the empty room, hoping that somewhere, somehow, my birth mother would be able to hear me. I had found out I was adopted around the age of eight, as soon as my parents thought that I could handle the news. I had no knowledge of my birth mother, other than that she left me with this necklace, which I wore constantly. It was our only connection. I loved my parents and had a hard time imagining my life without them, but I had never fully forgiven my birth mother for not giving me a chance. I swore that I would never let my children feel unwanted the way that I had and so I knew that I had no choice but to have this baby and raise it the best that I could. But until then, I still had seven months to resent everything about being pregnant and how my life would never again be the same. It took a while for me to finally share my secret with anyone. I just couldn’t bring myself to say the words aloud. It was as if the minute the words escaped my lips, I gave them permission to be real. After confiding in a few close friends, I realized this was the type of information that you wish people would just find out from someone other than yourself. I couldn’t take one more astonished face or question of “What are you going to do?” I contemplated how much it would cost to take out an ad in the school newspaper that simply said, “Mya Robinson is pregnant and she is keeping the baby.” “I can’t believe you still haven’t told your parents yet,” Jessica, my best friend scolded me as we walked to fourth period together. She was right, that revelation was going to have to come before a newspaper ad. “I just haven’t found the right time,” I whined. “You know perfectly well that it is NEVER going to be the right time. You better just get it over with. Like tearing off a band aid.” The thought of that conversation made me sick to my stomach. Literally. I felt a sharp pain in my stomach. This pregnant thing was a tough adjustment in more than one way. “Hey Jess, I’m going to run to the bathroom real quick before class.” “You better hurry, the bell’s about to ring.” “I know, see you in a few,” I shouted as I escaped into the washroom. I wasn’t entirely sure how this whole pregnant thing was supposed feel just yet. I had heard about morning sickness, but didn’t really imagine that it would be this bad. I staggered into a stall just as the bell rang. Well, I’d have to figure out how to explain my tardiness, but at least I’d have the luxury of getting sick in private. “Ugh,” I said aloud as I doubled over from another jolt of pain. As I was bent over I noticed a large dark spot on the inner thigh of my jeans. I quickly unbuttoned my pants and suddenly found myself covered in more blood than I had ever seen. “This is it, I’m dying,” I thought to myself. I began to feel dizzy as the pain in my stomach intensified. Everything began to feel very far away as I slowly fell to my knees. *** “Mom?” I awoke in a strange room with my mother’s eager eyes staring into mine. “Oh honey, it’s me. It’s ok, it’s ok.”
These are words to a picture book I've been working on. There are some pictures that go with the lines.
Icicles on my Bicycle
Icicles on my eyelashes Frozen snot on my face Squinting to see Muscling to make the light Energy from inside Pushing to pass Chill burning my cheeks Numb knees Air aches my lungs Sweaty hair smashed Helmet heating my head Nostrils sticking nose together Toes totally toughened Brakes not braking Skidding, sliding, slipping through stop light Accident avoided Boot brakes burn through sole Unlayering over clothes Dampness drying Redness returning Cooling core Ready for reading
Part 3 “Oh no, she knows,” I thought to myself. My eyes scanned the room. I was clearly in a hospital of some type. Both of my parents, as well as Jessica and some nurses all seemed to be looking at me anxiously. “Jess…” I heard myself say faintly. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re ok!” she said through her tears. “When you didn’t show up in class I asked for a pass and then I found you passed out in the bathroom and there was so much blood and, and, and I had to tell them,” she finished and looked down at the ground. “It’s ok Jess. Thank you for being a good friend. You did what you had to do.” I knew that she felt she had betrayed me I looked at my parents. “I was going to tell you, I really was, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I knew you would be so disappointed and…” “Mya,” my mom cut me off. “You had a miscarriage. You are going to be ok, but you lost the baby.” I starred at her in disbelief. I had never even told my mother that I was pregnant, and suddenly here she was telling me that I wasn’t. Everyone starred at me for my reaction. And suddenly I was very confused. When I first heard that I was pregnant, I would have done anything to make it go away. I wanted nothing to do with a baby or anything that went along with it. I just wanted to be a normal teenager and enjoy my senior year. I should be happy about this news then, right? Suddenly, I was free of my burden. I could pretend none of this nightmare ever happened. Then why did I suddenly feel so empty, so lost, as if something was missing. How was it possible to miss something that you didn’t want in the first place? Could I have wished this child away with all of my negative thoughts? I was suddenly overtaken by an extreme wave of guilt. “We have to do a few more tests,” the nurse announced as she politely escorted everyone out of the room. When they were gone, she turned and winked at me. “I thought you might need some space.” “Thanks.” I smiled. I suddenly became very tired. I would have to figure out how to feel about all of this later. “I may not be ready to be a mom yet,” I thought to myself as I reached to make sure my silver heart was still in its correct place. “But someday, someday…”
Dani stormed into her room, throwing her door behind her. The noise of the slam made the whole house shudder as it hit the doorframe. She was so sick of her parents always telling her what they thought she should do. She had heard so many different reasons why she should think the way they do and she was tired of feeling as though she had to constantly value their opinions while they seemed to disregard hers. “When will they realize that it’s what I want?!” Dani thought as she sobbed into her pillow, grabbing the sides of it so tight as she tried to squeeze out the pain she felt in her heart. The warmth flooded her face and ran into a deep stream onto the creases of the pillow. No matter how hard or long she sobbed, she couldn’t seem to rid herself of the suffering that tormented her. The longer and harder she cried the more pain she felt. It was a spiral that she couldn’t seem to pull herself out of. This was never a part of the “plan” she had envisioned for her life, but then again, when had her life ever looked the way she had thought it should? Her parents’ rocky marriage had ended in a divorce, which followed by her father moving hours away to follow his dreams and his job, leaving her and her mom to be someone else’s problem. All she had ever wanted from him was to feel loved, to feel valued, as though he cared for her the way she cared for him. Dani shuddered when she thought of him, the idea that he could careless what she did with her life. She heard the knock on the door and wanted to pretend like she was asleep knowing full well that whomever was on the other side of that door would know better. “Dani, your mother and I want to finish our conversation…” she heard her stepdad say through the door. Dani thought to herself, “the last thing I want to do is listen to what YOU think and hear all about how YOU feel in this situation.” Dani had often thought about all the ways her mom had changed since she had married Bill. He had definitely come between their relationship and she found herself feeling more like a stranger than a daughter to her mom. “Dani, this is a bit ridiculous. Don’t you think this situation calls for you to grow up a little bit? Isn’t it time you stop acting like a child?” her mother’s tone cut into Dani as the words poured from her lips. A funny combination of fury and sadness erupted inside of Dani as she listened to them continue to beat her spirit down more and more. Being pregnant at 17 was never something that she thought would happen to her. Ever. This wasn’t her idea of a “good time” or a way to spice things up.
If she could rewind the past three months of her life, she would gladly do it. If she could take back all the firsts that she had given him, she would yank them back in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, Dani knew all to well that you can’t take things back. Once they’re done, they’re done. She clutched her stomach thinking about what was happening inside her. Something that was supposed to bring such joy and hope to your life was only bringing worry and misery to hers. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” she thought. “Dani, all we ask is that you think about what we discussed. Please, don’t rule anything out yet,” she heard her mom say as she listened for what was to come. She was happy to hear the footsteps leading away from her door and down the hallway. They had given up for the time being. Dani was left alone to be tormented by her own thoughts.
The sun shined bright into the room, illuminating the shadows that the night had casted. Dani rolled over and peered confusingly into space. “What time is it?” she thought as she looked at her clock. Somehow, in the midst of all her worries, she had managed to fall asleep. She got up and looked at the puffy-eyed girl staring back at her in the mirror. While the urge to stay in bed was overwhelming, Dani knew she couldn’t do that. She had to face her parents at some point, and she knew it was better to do it now than later. If she had learned anything from them, it was that they were relentless and if she didn’t decide for and stand up for herself early on, they would continue to beat her down until they had won. She threw on her gym shorts and a t-shirt. She pulled the comb through her hair and tied it back with a rubber band. “Good enough,” Dani mumbled to herself as she opened her door and headed down the stairs to confront the mighty force. As soon as she turned the corner she saw her mom sitting at the table staring off into space with her usual cup of coffee sitting in front of her. Situated right next to her mom was her stepdad, enjoying his morning routine of reading the paper. Dani deeply inhaled and swallowed hard, trying to wish away the butterflies she felt in her belly – or was that the baby, surely it was too early to feel it. “Good morning,” her mom said flatly as she forced a smile across her face. “Good morning,” Dani’s response trailed off into the silence. Her stepdad cocked his head from around the paper to access the situation. Dani walked straight to the pantry to retrieve the cereal, mainly to avoid the conversation that was bound to happen. She fumbled through the choices, Toasted O’s, Fruity O’s, Sugary-Sweet Toast…who really cared? The idea of eating made her nauseous. She grabbed the box in the front and carelessly poured the cereal and milk in a bowl. It was times like these when Dani wished there was an island in her kitchen where she could sit and avoid her parents at the table. She slumped herself in a seat and began to eat trying not to make eye contact. And that’s when she lost it. Before she could even stop herself, she felt the words pouring off of her lips as though they were water flowing freely from a faucet. Dani felt as though she were watching someone else talk to her parents, someone else standing up for what they thought.
“I heard what you guys were saying last night, I know what you want. But what I really want you guys to hear is what I think about this whole situation. I don’t want to do something that I’ll regret and I’m afraid that if I do what you want me to do then I’ll live my life always wondering if I’d done the right thing. I want you to understand that I don’t think I could live with myself if I was responsible for the death of my own baby,” Dani gulped, trying to hold back the tears building behind her stone cold demeanor. “Dani, your mother and I feel as if going to the clinic to have the procedure done would be the best for your well-being. You have your whole future in front of you, the rest of your life to start a family,” her stepdad tried to reason with her. “Dani, what Bill is trying to say is that we think you would have the best chance at living a normal life if we could just erase this mistake and go on like normal. We only want what’s best for you,” her mom said as a tear silently rolled down her face and a weak, fake smile made it’s appearance on her face. Dani took a deep breath and from somewhere, deep inside herself, mustered up enough courage to take a stand for herself and her unborn child. “Like I said, I know what you want. I have heard your reasons. I have even considered them. But at the end of the day, there is no way that I could forgive myself for going through with an abortion. I know that there are a lot of people in this world who would love to have a baby to cherish and can’t do that on their own. While I can’t imagine ending the life of my child, I can imagine doing all within my power to give them the best life that I know how. Adoption is the best life I can offer and that is what I’m going to do. I hope and pray that you can find it in your heart and mind to forgive me and to support me through this. God knows that I’ll need your support. No matter what your response is, I’m going through with this and, respectfully, there’s nothing you can do to change my mind,” Dani pushed out the last words as she numbly got up from the table and walked out of the kitchen. As Dani walked out the front door into the morning breeze she was surprised by how at peace she felt. She had never remained that calm during a confrontation with them and she didn’t know how she managed to do it during this crazy time. She felt different. She felt stronger. She felt more in control. She felt older. Somewhere in all this, Dani had grown up. Dani’s mom watched her as she walked out the door. “Unbelievable,” Bill muttered as he forcefully folded the newspaper. “She’s your daughter, what are you going to do to fix this embarrassing mess?!” After a moment of silence, Dani’s mom voice quietly chimed in, “You know what Bill? This might be the proudest I’ve ever been of her. You might be embarrassed, but surprisingly, I’m not at all.”
Mentor Text Selections: Colleen Whittingham
ReplyDeleteBarrett, J. (1998). Things that are Most in the World. New York, NY: Aladdin Paperbacks.
A mentor text for ideas and word choice, this book presents ideas about the wiggliest, smelliest, jumpiest, things in the word. By combining silly images and words the authors stir up some imaginative ideas and phrases. The text can be used as an example of superlative adjectives and includes a blank page at the end where students can extend the text with their own “most” ideas. Appropriate for grades K-4.
Berger, M. (1995). A Whale is not a Fish and Other Animal Mix-Ups. New York, NY:
Scholastic, Inc.
A mentor text for organization and expository writing, this text compares two “like but often confused” objects or concepts and describes their differences by direct comparison. The text has a table of contents, headings and subheadings, label captions, and a conclusion, allowing it to serve as an example of expository organization. The contrasting information shared about each pairing can be used as a springboard for students to write an informational piece about two objects or ideas they commonly confuse. Appropriate for grades 4-8.
Hoose, P., & Hoose, H. (1998). Hey, Little Ant. New York, NY: Scholastic, Inc.
A mentor text for voice and persuasion, this text is written in an alternating conversational pattern between an ant and a boy, both arguing why they should or should not squish the ant. The illustrations match the perspective of the teacher, making it a strong example of an effective picture book, as well. Appropriate for students in grades 2-6.
Huliska-Beith, L. (2000). The Book of Bad Ideas. Boston, MA: Meghan Tingley Books
Little, Brown and Company.
A mentor text for ideas and voice, this text is written from the perspective of a group of kids willing to share their experience with ideas they thought were good at the time. Illustrations help to exaggerate the result if ideas such as “#450: taking your super-duper triple-decker ice creat cone on a roller coaster – splat!” Very kid-friendly themes ooze voice and can be used as a springboard for students own “bad idea” writing. Appropriate for students K-6.
Leedy, L. & Street, P. (2003). There’s a Frog in my Throat! 440 Animal Sayings a
Little Bird Told Me. New York, NY: A Holiday House Book.
A mentor text for word choice, this text serves as a dictionary of sorts, defining 440 animal idioms with illustrations. This book can be used as a resource when coming across various idioms in text, particularly for ELL students, or as a source of inspiration to increase word choice variety in one’s own writing. Appropriate for all grades.
Mentor Texts: Colleen Whittingham
ReplyDeleteMoss, M. (1998). Rachel’s Journal: The Story of a Pioneer Girl. San Diego, CA: Siler
Whistle Harcourt Brace & Co.
A mentor text for voice, organization, and historical fiction, this text is written from the perspective of a pioneer girl and details her adventures as she travels across the country in a covered wagon with her family as she records them in a personal journal. The first entry actually appears on an index card inserted into the book giving it a very “authentic” feel and is dated March 10, 1850. The author’s note describes the process of gathering artifacts from various primary sources to create Rachel’s voice and therefore serves as model to students of the writing process as it unfolds for a published author. Appropriate for grads 4-8.
Shannon, G. (1996). Tomorrow’s Alphabet. New York, NY: Greenwillow Books.
A mentor text for ideas and organization, this unconventional ABC book portrays each letter of the alphabet as representing what it will be tomorrow rather than today. For example, B is not for Bird but for Egg, as tomorrow’s Eggs will be Birds. This text could be used as an idea generator for poetry, as a model text for one’s own inventive alphabet, or as an example of the effectiveness of repetitive text structure. Appropriate for all ages.
Truss, L. (2006). Eats, Shoots, and Leaves: Why Commas Really DO Make a
Difference! New York, NY: G. P. Putnam’s Sons.
A mentor text for conventions and editing, this text demonstrates the difference a comma can make in a sentence. Each two-page spread demonstrates the same sentence with different punctuation and an illustration to match each. For example, “Slow, children crossing.” vs “Slow children crossing.” Appropriate for students in grades 2 and up.
Van Allsburg, C. (1984). The Mysteries of Harris Burdick. Boston, MA:
Houghton Mifflin Company.
A mentor text for ideas, and short-story writing, this book actually begins on the book jacket, where the story of the included illustrations is described. Unsure if the story is factual or fictional, the reader then discovers a series of 14 drawings, each with a title and a single caption. Chris Van Allsburg challenges the reader to solve the mysteries of each picture, which serve as story starters for young authors. With no right answer to be discovered, solutions can be created and recreated over and over. Amazing black and white sketch illustrations can’t help but inspire ideas! Appropriate for grades 3-8.
Viorst, J. (1993). Earring! New York, NY: Aladdin Picture Books.
A mentor text for voice and persuasion, this text details the plight of a young girl begging her parents to allow her to pierce her ears. Offering various promises and deals to her mom and dad, this little girl’s relentless voice provides a humorous example of persuasion and a model for students to write their own persuasive piece. Appropriate for grades 2-6.
Short Story Part 1
ReplyDeleteHoliday Misadventures
By Becky Maltz
“I don’t want to go,” Hannah said as nicely as possible. She was concentrating on making her face look as serious and innocent as possible. She even made sure that her hair looked somewhat under control in a nice ponytail instead of the frizzy and unkempt look she usually walked around the house, and well everywhere, with. Looking at her parents, her mind went directly to that overly decorated house full of people in a ridiculous amount of folding chairs and paper plates full of food on their laps. Having to spend the entire night with everyone smiling at her family awkwardly, wondering what they could possibly be doing there. “Remember, Grandma said I didn’t have to go either, she doesn’t even want to be there. She doesn’t want to spend Thanksgiving in a house that is ninety percent strangers and the other ten percent relatives we try to ignore all other times of the year.”
“Hannah, sweetie, why would you want to spend Thanksgiving alone? Don’t you think you will be bored or lonely? You can’t even call up a friend to talk or hang out with because they will be with their families. I think you will regret it later on, but most importantly, I think you should just suck it up and go,” tried her mother, “how awful can one night of a home cooked, actually nicely catered, Thanksgiving meal be?” Hannah’s mom was getting less and less patient with her trying to skip out on the holiday. It was Hannah’s first Thanksgiving Break from college, and she had been angling to somehow get out of this “family” holiday since the moment she stepped on the driveway. her mother’s patience was disappearing by the minute. Figuring she was loosing chances, Hannah went up to her room to formulate a new plan.
Thinking up new plans made Hannah tired. Later, after waking up from a nap she left her childhood room, still pink, which oddly enough was a color she was never fond us, to see what there was to eat. Before she made it to the top stair, she heard her mother and father whispering behind their slightly cracked open bedroom door. “What does it matter? Just let her stay home. She is only home from college for a few more days. I just don’t think it matters that much,” said her father.
Hannah had to give it to her mother; she had a strong counter argument. “You are always talking about how important family is and this is your family! Your sister will be there. When our daughter has her own family, do you want her to just run off and do whatever on holidays, ignoring us? This could be setting a precedent.”
Hannah loved her immediate family very much; it was her aunt, uncle, and cousins she could do just fine without. While she understood where her mother came from, she knew her father did not see it the same way. He, like Hannah, did not care at all about his sister, Hannah’s aunt, and the rest of them. Never seeing them again would probably make no difference to him. Hannah’s aunt had been causing problems for all of them for too long. Hannah had been thinking lately that it would just be easier to faze her aunt out; it would mean significantly less stress for everyone involved. Plus, Hannah always thought her aunt didn’t like her and her brothers much anyway. Hannah gave up hope that her aunt would acknowledge or care that she graduated high school over a year ago and was now in college hundreds of miles of cornfields away.
Part 2
ReplyDelete“Hannah!” her father yelled for her. Hannah tried her best to make it appear she had just woken up, her hair always helped in that. “I know you do not like your relatives and while I think this is a bad idea, your mother and I decided you are old enough to think for yourself and if you do not want to go to Thanksgiving dinner you do not have to.”
“When did we decide that?” Hannah’s mother shouted. She could see the anger in her mother’s face that a decision was made without her and right in front of her. Their family always had a voting system and since there were five of them one side always came out on top. That’s how they finally got the dog when Hannah was ten. It took years for Hannah and her father to convince her younger brother to vote on their side. But, majority wins. Never before had one person just made a choice without considering the opinions and feelings of everyone else. Hannah immediately had mixed emotions. She could spend Thanksgiving however she wanted, but she knew she would soon hear a shouting match between her parents and it was all her fault.
A few days later when Hannah’s family left for Thanksgiving dinner in a house full of mostly strangers, her mother did not even say goodbye. Part of Hannah could see where her mother was coming from. She had no family to be close to if she wanted to. She knew her mother wanted her to have people to connect with and call family. On the other hand, she could not see what the big deal was. Hannah’s immediate family and grandma were enough for her. Relatives, her relatives, always complicated things.
Hannah had planned this evening and dinner ever since she found out she didn’t have to go with her family. The best plan she came up with was to just do nothing, then eat, then do nothing again. Since her cooking skills were extremely limited she decided pasta would be her Thanksgiving dinner. Her parents hadn’t even thought to get something Thanksgiving-like for her or help her make something, but that thought made her feel selfish so she immediately tried to forget it. Eventually, it made her happy to think she was having something that was so anti-Thanksgiving. She thought about the catered and impersonal meal, served buffet style, her family was having at the house full of strangers. She thought about how her parents and brothers would find some random nook to eat in together because there was no room left at any of the tables. Holiday seating always made her family seem like an after thought. At home, she had the whole table to herself and the dog knew better than to beg for food from her. Hannah’s thoughts did wander from her family to loneliness to relief at having dodged an uncomfortable dinner. At least at home she got to watch television during dinner. Holiday programs were starting and Hannah saw there were many programs she could choose from.
After dinner, Hannah headed to her room to watch A Christmas Story. She had recently learned that the boy did not actually shoot his eye out and had promised her friend she would watch the whole thing for the first time. She was determined not to chicken out this time. How bad could it be? Yet, even the thought of the kid shooting his eye out freaked her out once more and she had to resolve to try again another year.
Part 3
ReplyDeleteSince Hannah was home alone, for how long it would be she did not know, she decided to entertain herself with her new favorite pastime. Ever since her senior year of high school, Hannah had become obsessed with looked at old family photos and watching old family movies. Most likely, she thought, it was because she was growing up and moving on or she missed her childhood. She had watched her dance recitals, her older brother’s soccer games, her younger brother’s band concerts, and video of all three of them just dancing around in the family room. Hannah looked at photos of family vacations and vacations they took with family friends. The families in the photos, she thought, always seemed more like family to her than the people she was blood related to. The people in the pictures were always there for her, her brother and parents. They acknowledged graduations, birthdays, triumphs, were there when things were not so great, visited after surgeries, took to activities, babysat, and encouraged. Maybe, she got to thinking, that she did not want to go to this Thanksgiving dinner not because she did not like her extended family but because they did not feel like her extended family. The people in the pictures she was holding and videos she was watching really were her extended family in every sense of the word. She had emotional connections to them, which had to be thicker than blood.
Hannah got to thinking about the fits, however misguided; she had put up over the years for having to go to family holidays. She probably could have just sucked it up, as her mother wanted her to, but then she never would have discovered who her true extended family was. Maybe she could spend Thanksgiving with all of them next year.
Part 1
ReplyDeleteJune swung her bare legs back and forth as she sat on the front porch swing. Sweat trickled down her back as she watched the heat shimmer down the dusty dirt road. Her stomach oscillated between butterflies and nausea.
“June,” her mother called from inside, “The postman won’t come until at least 3 – same as every day. Get in here and watch Willy and Bruce for me while I get the noon meal ready.”
June sighed, calculating how much longer she would have to stand her rambunctious younger brothers and their incessant questioning, and wondering if today the postman would bring the answer.
“Coming, mama” she called as she peeled her sticky legs off the swing and headed inside.
The air inside hung heavy with the scent of peeled carrots and boiling potatoes. June found her brothers, Bruce and Willy, dissecting a grasshopper in the bedroom. Bruce was an eight-year-old whose feet were covered in perpetual cakes of mud. Willy, age five, was similarly disheveled and followed Bruce like a shadow.
“Cool, look at its guts!” yelled Bruce as Willy peered over his shoulder. After a few moments of silent inspection, Willy noticed June’s presence in the room.
“Junie, why are its insides that color?” he questioned.
“How do grasshoppers jump so far?”
“Well,” June began, “I suppose that’s the way God made them. And they probably have to jump that far to get away from birds trying to eat them.”
“Oh,” said Willy, “Well…then why do rabbits jump so far? Who are they trying to get away from? And why don’t they jump away from Daddy when he’s going to get one out of the hutch for Mother to fix for dinner?”
“What do you think?” June replied.
This was her favorite question-avoiding strategy. As much as she loved her brothers, she hated the monotonous days on the farm, digging potatoes, feeding rabbits, and tending to Bruce and Willy. Things had become worse since graduating high school in May. While she had previously been able to escape during school days, immersing her mind in French conjugates and mathematical equations, the days now dragged on forever in her unoccupied mind.
Part 2
ReplyDeleteBruce, satisfied with the scientific progress he had made with the grasshopper, now produced a worm. He let Willy begin the inspection. Noting that both boys were sufficiently engaged, June reached into the back of her dresser drawer and found her stationary set and ink pen.
“Dear Tynne,” she began in her best penmanship,
“I hope this letter finds you well. Mother and Daddy are fine, and Bruce and Willy have been busy investigating whatever they can find and generally getting into trouble. I have been eagerly awaiting your response to my last letter. I hope you didn’t find it too bold of me to ask about your spare room. I know you and Evart were just married six months ago, and are still settling into your home in Lansing, but I can’t stop thinking about the extra, empty room you described as I lay smushed between the boys and try to fall asleep each night. Tynne, you are my sister but also my dearest friend, and you know I have always had dreams bigger than McBain, Michigan. As I mentioned before, I will find a job to earn my keep, plus help you around the house. Please write back quickly – even if it’s a no – so I am not stuck in limbo. Your loving sister, June”
June folded the letter, placed it in an envelope, and sealed it shut.
“Dinnertime,” she heard her mother yell as she set the envelope down on the shelf.
The next few hours were a blur of eating, washing dishes, and supervising Bruce’s feeding of the rabbits and chickens. Just as she was headed back inside to help with supper preparations, she saw the dust rising down the road. Sprinting like a fox on the chase, she began the quarter-mile trip to the mailbox. Halfway there she realized she’d forgotten her letter.
“Oh well,” thought June, “I’ll just mail it tomorrow.”
Beating Mr. VanVleet to the mailbox, she hunched over to catch her breath as she willed the postal truck to move faster.
“Hey there, June,” said the postman. “Beat me to it again, I see. Well, today I think I might have what you’ve been waiting for.”
As he handed her the envelope scrawled with handwriting so similar to her own, June saw two futures flash before her eyes. In one, she was a tired, haggard-looking farmer’s wife with three scrawny children running underfoot. In the other, she was a svelte, sophisticated city girl in a fashionable coat, walking to her job downtown. Realizing the full weight of the contents of the envelope, she tentatively slid her finger under the sealed flap.
THE END
Discovery in Service Part 1
ReplyDeleteLife is a series of moments. Most of which pass us by, some creating memories, helping us learn lessons for the future, or making us smile when we thing of good times passed. Others, few others, change the course of our lives in a much greater way. Friday afternoon, December 14, 1998 was one of those moments.
I had registered for the Discovery in Service course for a few reasons. One, it was offered during 6th and 7th hour, so on the days that you were not “discovering,” you could leave school an hour early. And two, hands-on community service was an important part of the process for many of my upcoming scholarship applications. Basically, it would look good on my resume.
The premise of the class was simple. Spend three afternoons a week out in the community providing some kind of service to those in need. Could be a hospital setting, a special education school, or a home for the elderly. Then, come back to the classroom and share your experiences. Seemed basic enough.
Mr. Heneghan was the director of the program and therefore determined your placement for the semester. After taking into account your own interests, your responses to a written survey, and his own prayerful reflection (this was a Catholic high school, remember), we held a prayer service at which time everyone was presented with their assignments. Mr. H had written them on a quarter slip of paper with the Discovery in Service letterhead across the top.
He handed me my assignment, and at the time I wasn’t really concerned with what it said, as long as it said the same thing as Joe Skibinski’s. We had agreed to ride together if we would be working at the same place, and my hourly earnings at the Dairy Queen would appreciate the savings of carpooling. I put the assignment in my back pocket, and took off for the weekend.
Joe and I were both assigned to SpEED, the Special Education Co-op a few miles from campus. I was placed in a classroom of seven deaf autistic children while Joe would work with students who had more severe medical needs. During the course of the school year I went from pretty frightened by my surroundings to excited by the gains we experienced together and the classroom community that we created. At the end of the semester I thanked the teacher, hugged my students, and called the University of Dayton to change my major. I was no longer interested in pursing the career of a journalist. I was impassioned by children with special needs.
Discovery in Service Part 2
ReplyDeleteAt the end of the summer as I was packing for college I came across that slip of paper with Mr. Heneghan’s ornate handwriting. I realized then that his decision to place me at SpEED had changed the course of my professional life. I put the paper in my wallet and left it there, taking it out from time to time when things got difficult, always remembering those first seven students. I changed my major from special education to early childhood with an emphasis in early intervention, graduated from UD, transferred my license to Illinois, taught first grade in Gurnee and then received a third grade position in New Lenox.
Eight years later, I once again found myself face to face with Mr. Henaghan. This time, it was my brother’s graduation we were celebrating. Dan and Mr. Heneghan had worked together more consistently during Dan’s high school experience, and the two had kept in touch during his four years at West Point. Dan invited Jack to his graduation, and Jack gratefully accepted. While eating lunch in the Mess Hall on post, waiting for the pomp and circumstance to begin, a conversation ensued about the lasting effects teachers have on their students. Jack was so moved by Dan’s invitation, and wanted him to know how few and far between those formal moments of recognition are in the life of a teacher. I took the opportunity to create one more.
I opened my wallet and handed Jack the tattered piece of paper I had carried with me for so long. With tears in his eyes he accepted it, and I thanked him for giving me the opportunity to become a part of the profession that would make such moments possible.
Don’t Pass the Vegetables!
ReplyDeleteA Children’s Story
My name is Max. I turned five years old last month. I have brown hair and blue eyes and mom says I get taller and taller everyday! I like baseball, trains, building forts in my basement, playing on the computer, Super Heroes, and I even like this boy Marcus in my class who pushes everyone (most kids don’t like him). BUT, there is one thing that I do NOT like … Vegetables!
It seems like everywhere I go somebody is trying to make me eat vegetables! Carrots, broccoli, cucumbers, green beans, spinach … they follow me around all day.
At lunch: “Want some carrots?” says the lunch lady in a grumpy voice. “No thanks,” I reply.
After school snack: “How about some cucumbers with Ranch?” mom asks chipperly. “I’ll pass, mom.”
Dinnertime: “Max, you have to eat your green beans or there’s no dessert,” dad demands. That night I sat at the dinner table for three hours, THREE long hours. I never got dessert.
Dad whispered to mom (maybe they thought I couldn’t hear), “Max is one stubborn boy.” Maybe they think I don’t know what stubborn means, but I do and I’m not stubborn- I just don’t like vegetables! Why doesn’t anybody believe me? How come no one understands?
It cannot be possible that I am the only human being on the planet Earth who absolutely, positively, 100% does not like vegetables! At night when I try to fall asleep all I can hear is: “Max, just try it, you might like it!” or “Max, carrots make you see better. Eat your carrots,” and of course, “Max, if you want to be big and strong you better eat your vegetables!”
Then something changed. I woke up one Saturday morning around 8 o’clock and I walked downstairs into the kitchen. I peeked my head this way and then that way and did not see anybody else nearby. “I wonder where everyone is?” I thought. It’s not usually so quiet in my house. One thing I knew for sure was that I needed some breakfast!
I opened the refrigerator and… “AHHHH!” I screamed! The whole refrigerator was filled with vegetables! No milk, no yogurt, no eggs, no Jell-O just vegetables, vegetables, vegetables! I was about to slam the door shut when I heard:
“MAX! Wait! Don’t close the door, just give us one minute!” A red pepper was talking to me. This was absurd!
“Please, Max. This won’t take long!” Shouted a shiny green cucumber.
“Well… well… okay,” I said, “what is it? What do you want to tell me?” I was very curious and confused.
“My name is Brian Broccoli and I brought along my friends Carol Carrot, Sammy Spinach, Pete Pepper, and Carl Cucumber. We are here to rescue you!” Brian Broccoli stood front and center in my refrigerator to deliver me this message.
“I don’t get it! Rescue me from what? I just don’t like vegetables –no offense- I never have and I don’t think I ever will,” I told them truthfully. I shrugged my shoulders, put my head down and I was about to shut the refrigerator when Carl Cucumber stood up tall and said, “Max, we understand that sometimes we may taste bland.”
“And some people overcook us and then we lose our color and shape,” interrupted Pete Pepper.
“And it’s ok, Max, if you don’t like all of us,” added Sammy Spinach.
“But, what we’re trying to tell you, Max, is that we aren’t going to give up on you and we want you to know that even Super Heroes eat vegetables!” Brian Broccoli told me with confidence.
I looked around at all the vegetables sitting in my refrigerator. They starred back at me with warm, fresh faces. I started to feel like these vegetables really did understand me, like they really cared about me. Maybe I should give vegetables another chance.
Mom walked into the kitchen a few minutes later and I was sitting at the table eating a bowl of carrots.
“Max! You’re eating vegetables, I can’t believe my eyes!” My mom said cheerfully.
“That’s right, I sure am,” I told my mom but I’m not going to tell her about the talking vegetables in the refrigerator. That will be our little secret.
The Lake
ReplyDeleteA continuous blue stretched all around Elizabeth as she treads water. Joyful screams and laughter echoed in the distance. Gasoline fumes streamed through her sinuses as she tried to situate the crooked 4-foot boards beneath her. She heard her brother’s voice pricking her eardrums. “You won’t be able to do it. You’re only eight!” Elizabeth despised being told what she could or could not do and wanted nothing more than to prove her skeptic wrong. Deep down, she wanted to accomplish the impossible before her brother.
“Are you ready, Lizzie?”
“I’m nervous.”
“Just keep your arms straight, your knees like springs and let me take care of the rest,” yelled her Dad 30 feet ahead.
“Ok…go?” she responded, questioning whether she was truly ready or not.
Elizabeth heard the motor accelerate before she felt her arms jerk forward. She was only able to hang on to the handle for a second before she saw it bouncing off the water in front of her. The boat her family was in circled back immediately. Elizabeth’s mom had been watching like a hawk and screamed the second she realized there was no skier behind the boat. As they came closer to Elizabeth’s original location, she heard her brother laughing.
“Nice going!” Michael chuckled. “Keep it up and we’ll be here all day.”
“Shut up. I didn’t know it was going to pull that hard.”
“Hold on to the handle and just let the boat pull you out of the water,” said her Dad as he straightened the bow.
Elizabeth watched as her parents, her safety net, drifted further and further away with every inch the rope leveled out. This time, she wasn’t letting go.
“Now are you ready?” called her brother, mockingly.
“GO!” she yelled with more confidence.
Again, Elizabeth heard the hum of the engine grow louder, knowing that any second her ability to move in the water was no longer in her control and she would have to use all of the muscles an eight-year-old had to accomplish this feat. Slowly, she felt herself making small ripples in the wake behind the boat. “Keep your arms straight,” she remembered her Dad saying only five minutes ago. Elizabeth sat on the skis in the water, holding on for dear life as she felt the acceleration from the boat. In an instant, Elizabeth was face down in the water with her legs stretched out behind her, slapping the water at every bump. Lake water rushed into her mouth and nostrils, but she refused to let go. With the next hit of a wave, Elizabeth felt the ski on her left foot slip off. She wasn’t going to take her hands off of the handle. Water continued to hit her face like a ton of bricks and she could do nothing but hang on and close her eyes. Elizabeth didn’t want to make the same mistake as last time. Suddenly, she felt her arms bend and her body grow still. When her Dad realized Elizabeth didn’t make it up, he slowed down and turned the boat around once again. What seemed like ten minutes of being drug across the water for Elizabeth was merely ten seconds for her spectators.
ReplyDelete“Honey,” said her Dad, “if you’re face down, it’s ok to let go. There is no sense in hurting yourself. I’m going to circle around to pick up your ski and bring it back to you.”
Elizabeth watched as the boat sputtered past her to pick up the evidence of another failed attempt.
“There is so much to think about,” Elizabeth said to herself. “Arms straight, knees bent, let go if I have to.”
When her family returned, Michael threw the ski out to Elizabeth. While she flopped around in the water like a fish trying to put it back on, her Dad asked, “Do you know what you did?”
“Yea, I held on too long.”
“No. You stood up, but you leaned forward. If you do that, you’ll go down face first every time. Pretend you’re leaning your back against a wall.”
“Great,” Elizabeth thought. “Now I have to remember to lean back on top of everything else. This is impossible!”
Elizabeth situated herself to be pulled up by the force of the boat in front of her, calling out to her Dad that she was ready once again. But again she fell. Up, down, up, down. Growing more tired with each attempt. Her body began to feel like Jell-O. Elizabeth’s Mom pleaded for her to climb into the boat and try again tomorrow. She looked up at her brother sitting in the boat with his hands folded behind his head, grinning at her. Elizabeth knew that Michael couldn’t wait for his turn to get up on his first try and rub it in, just like he did with his first homerun in little league.
“Can I please try one more time?” Elizabeth begged.
ReplyDelete“One more time,” her Dad replied. “As the boat accelerates, just stand up. It’s as simple as that.”
“Yea right,” Elizabeth thought. “If it’s so simple, I would have been able to do it already.”
She positioned herself one last time, keeping her arms straight, holding the handle of the rope in between the points of her skis poking through the top of the water. The waves from other boats and accomplished skiers zooming past her, made it difficult to keep the skis from crossing. Elizabeth bent her knees to ensure that she was nearly sitting on the backs of the skis under the water.
“Here we go,” she thought. “I can’t wait until tomorrow, and I’m going to beat him at something.”
Elizabeth remembered everything her Dad had told her. He knew what he was doing. She remembers watching in amazement earlier that summer when her Dad skied slalom behind his friend’s boat with only one ski and no hesitation. That’s what she wanted, but not to that degree. Elizabeth didn’t want to be greedy, just reasonable. Two skis? Was that too much to ask?
As the boat yanked her out of the water, Elizabeth remembered to keep her arms taut and let the boat pull her to a standing position. At first she wobbled, trying to maintain balance and keep her legs from drifting further and further apart. If she let that happen, for sure she would fall down and her moment would be ruined. After ten seconds of awkwardness, Elizabeth realized what she had done. She was skiing, just like her Dad, and before her brother. Her knees bounced, absorbing the shocks of the waves. Elizabeth was too nervous to look away from her hands holding the rope handle. However, as she focused her eyes on the boat before her, she saw her Mom waving with joy, her Dad nodding with pride, and her brother clapping with excitement.
Oh, no! A wave!
To develop this story I used the RAFT strategy.
ReplyDeleteRole of the Writer: Who or what are you?
Audience: To whom are you writing?
Format: In what format are you writing?
Topic: What are you writing about? Why? What’s the subject or point?
R = Me, remembering an odd person from my hometown.
A = People who aren’t from the town.
F = Memoir/remembrance.
T = Recalling the past, and what it takes to leave home.
“What Happened to James Wiseman?”
Part One
Out of the blue I happened to think about him. I remember the last time that I saw him was the day of the barge crash, so I started looking in Google, which listed 320 with his same name living in the United States. After reading the descriptions, I went to the images section, because no one sounded like him. He wasn’t there, either. Neither was he on Facebook, but I wasn’t surprised about that. If the world contains 320 people named James Wiseman, and 319 have Facebook pages, I know with certainty the one who did not would be the James Wiseman from my hometown on the banks of the Mississippi River, two miles south of the I-80 bridge between Iowa and Illinois. The James I knew possessed no motivation to be known by anyone, his desire for privacy reinforced by the many hours he spent fishing and trapping alone along the river. Now in 2011, James has contentedly been able to disappear into the plain sight of a world where invisibility is nearly impossible, thanks to Google and Bing,
But back on Father’s Day 2000, long before Facebook was invented, I was visiting my hometown of Hampton, Illinois. Our family dinner was over, and sitting on the front porch river-watching with my aunt and uncle was a long-standing tradition. We were chatting about this and that, when suddenly we noticed a large barge moving rapidly (for a barge) towards the shoreline of the river. I went down to the riverbank for a closer look, and began to run. Nobody else from my family, sitting back on the porch, seemed as excited as I was, moving quickly down First Avenue, eyes on the barge, obviously moving closer and closer to the shore. As it neared the very bank of the river, I stopped and watched breathlessly as it destroyed a wooden dock with a boat tied up to it, halted by its collision. Then, all of a sudden, James bolted out the back of his house yelling and shaking his fist at the barge for destroying his property. Having barely ever heard him speak, it was amazing to hear him agitatedly swearing at the barge as if it could hear him.
James was certainly a fixture of the town: youngest son of Olive and M. F. “Doc” Wiseman, the town doctor, who even after retirement still treated a select group of aging town matriarchs who considered him to be the best doctor in the world, even though everyone knew his old-fashioned methods had probably led to a few medical mishaps. (My family went to his younger brother Carl, who practiced out of an office in Moline, rather than making house calls like M.F.)
When I think back, probably the first time I ever saw James was in church. I was just a little girl, and he was probably five to ten years older than me. Every Sunday he accompanied his mother Olive, nicknamed “Holly” (who was my first grade Sunday school teacher), to both Sunday school and the worship service at the Hampton United Methodist Church. His father and older brother never joined them. He always wore a suit in cool weather and a white shirt with a tie and slacks in warm weather. They always sat in the back row on the south side of the aisle. Come to think of it, when they were alive, you rarely saw James apart from one of his parents. You really didn’t see Dr. and Mrs. Wiseman together all that much, either. On the surface of things, he must have been a comfort to them in their old age. Yet, sometimes I wonder why he was the way he was. Did he have some kind of personality disorder? Or was he just quirky and introverted?
Part Two
ReplyDeleteJust because you grow up in a small town, it doesn’t mean that you know everyone well; however, you do know everyone superficially, at least. Sometimes, certain eccentric individuals almost seem like storybook characters, especially after the separation of time and distance in your memory. In my remembrance, James had a rather somber presence that was mildly startling. After reading David Copperfield in the sixth grade, I was certain that James could play the character Uriah Heep, based on his appearance, and I often thought it whenever I saw him. His [Uriah’s] face was quite as cadaverous as it had looked in the window, though in the grain of it there was that tinge of red, which is sometimes to be observed in the skins of red-haired people. It belonged to a red-haired person—a youth of fifteen, as I take it now, but looking much older—whose hair was cropped as close as the closest stubble; who had hardly any eyebrows, and no eyelashes, and eyes of a red-brown, so unsheltered and unshaded, that I remember wondering how he went to sleep. He was high-shouldered and bony; dressed in decent black, with a white wisp of a neckcloth; buttoned up to the throat; and had a long, lank, skeleton hand, which particularly attracted my attention, as he stood at the pony's head, rubbing his chin with it, and looking up at us in the chaise. This could describe James nearly exactly, except that his blazing red hair stood straight up from his forehead about two inches. Never was a hair out of place, nor did it ever seem longer or shorter than any other time. His eyes had a piercing quality, but they were usually looking away from you, as if he could see something in the distance that required his full attention.
He was often seen around town riding an old, but sturdy, black bicycle with a tan, leather seat. The two baskets attached to the rear bumper contained his fishing gear, the pole jutting out at an angle. On his head he wore a green Australian-style hat, one flap turned up on the side, and loosely tied beneath his clean-shaven chin. He usually wore a military green t-shirt and pants, and a pair of greenish gray Wellingtons. If he wasn’t on his bicycle, he could be seen out on the river in his flat-bottom boat, which he used to fish and lay his nets. He could make his own fishnets, which he would sometimes demo at Historical Society festivals. I still have a shopping bag made from the nets he wove for one of these events.
Part Three
ReplyDeleteOnce, Doc and James, after traveling the length of the Mississippi River, traveled together down the Amazon River in a flat-bottom boat. Story has it that James met a young native woman on that trip and married her, but we never saw her in town. They were known for their fishing, and many a fish fry in the town was supplied by Doc’s expertly filleted catfish, fried up and served with corn bread and coleslaw for five dollars a plate; lemonade included.
The day of the barge crash, James appeared to be living in a remodeled, light blue house with white shutters, located down on First Avenue, not far from the Historical Society building. It looked well kept up. At the time of the accident we did not know that the barge pilot had suffered a heart attack, dying at the wheel, causing it to leave the channel and hit the riverbank. I was so thankful that I had traveled there that day and was witness to it. It was one of the most exciting things I recall happening in my small river town. It would have been a shame to miss it. Sadly, it took a man’s death and nearly catastrophic barge accident to finally stimulate some reaction from James. Regrettably, I heard later that he was so disgruntled by the incident that he moved away. It is not known if he contacts anyone in Hampton. Always an introvert, I don’t think I ever spoke to him beyond “hello.”
Even though I looked for James on the Internet, I am glad I did not find him. By remaining elusive, his Facebook profile picture, or random shots from his trip to Peoria for a family wedding don’t distract me from the James I remember. I’d rather call to mind his old-fashioned ways, imagining him still weaving his nets and catching fish in some distant river, a flowing river more home to him than the solid ground of the village where we grew up.
I Kissed THAT Guy!!!
ReplyDeleteBy Lisa Rudin
I watched as my niece Kelly skipped ahead of my sister and I, who were both bogged down with chairs and coolers. Kelly was carrying her brother’s icy blue Gatorade bottle in one hand and a gift for her grandfather in the other. We were headed towards the pee-wee football field to meet our family for my nephew’s game.
Usually Kelly ran to the sidelines to deliver the drink to her brother and then met up with the rest of us spectators, but today she had another plan. She was radiating excitement. Today had been “F Day” in preschool and she had made a special “F is for Football” collage just for Papa.
She seemed to spot him near our normal location alongside the fifty yard line, so her skip became a run that bee-lined toward him. He had on jeans and a striped polo shirt, but he wasn’t wearing a cap today. The little bits of gray-white hair, which could be found only on the very top of his head, blew around in the fall wind. His eyes were focused on the players warming up on the field. Her grandma sat in a chair next to him and she seemed to be talking as he watched.
I knew there was something odd about that picture, even from far away. My dad never sat down before, during, or after Kyle’s football games. He was too excited. Also mom had given up trying to talk to him during sporting events a long time ago. I giggled to myself and then shared a smile with my sister. We watched Kelly make an error we had made before.
I Kissed THAT Guy!
ReplyDeletePart 2
Kelly got to him quickly, slung her arms around him and planted a big juicy kiss on his cheek. But before she could even pull away to show him her art, a deep, booming voice came out of Papa. He said, “Thanks for the kiss, Kelly. I haven’t seen you since you were just a baby!”
She thought about that for a minute. That wasn’t Papa’s voice. Papa had seen her two days ago. She was puzzled. She hopped off his lap, glanced at him, then grandma, then him again.
It looked like Papa, but…
She dropped the bottle and her prized artwork and ran towards us screaming. “I kissed THAT guy that looks just like my papa, but THAT GUY is NOT my papa!!!”
My sister tried not to laugh as she put her stuff on the ground to lift Kelly into her arms. Kelly was in shock and tears were starting to fall down her face that she was burying into her mother’s shoulder. Her mother stroked her back and began to comfort her.
“It’s okay Kell-Bell. That’s not your papa. It’s his twin brother. Remember how we said that Papa’s brother was coming to visit? He’s your Uncle Al. They look a lot a like.”
Her head popped up a bit and she wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. She looked over to me and I smiled at her. “Papa and Uncle Al are twins, that means that the look the same,” I told her.
She looked back over at that guy who was not her Papa and saw a lot of our family standing around him. The she looked back at me.
“Really? That guy is Papa’s brother?”
“Yep he sure is,” I said and my sister shook her head in agreement, still stroking Kelly’s back.
“He looks like Papa, but he DOES NOT sound like him!” she exclaimed.
I laughed. “You’re right again. That’s one way that I learned to tell the difference. I did the same thing when I was little.”
“Me too,” said her mom. “I think we all did at some time or another.”
“Did you kiss him thinking he was Papa? Cuz he is NOT Papa!”
“No,” we both said and then laughed, which seemed to upset Kelly.
“I don’t remember this,” I said, “But Grandma likes to tell a story about me coming into a room when I was little and seeing Papa and Uncle Al together and then running out of the room screaming and crying because I was so confused.”
Kelly started to laugh a little. “And Grandma used to kiss Uncle Al by accident all the time when they were young and she and Papa were first dating,” added my sister, who was in the process of lowering Kelly to the ground. This seemed to make her feel better; at least Grandma had been fooled too. “Let’s go say hello to everyone and see where Papa is.”
Kelly spent the rest of the game telling EVERYONE how she kissed “the guy who looked like Papa, but was NOT Papa!” That night was a lot of fun, reuniting with our family visiting from Ohio and swapping stories about being fooled by the twins.
I knew that my dad being a twin was a special gift for all of us. He always had another guy somewhere that looked just like him and had been his best friend since birth. We all had a guy in our lives who looked just like our dad, papa or whatever we called him. This guy, Uncle Al, had the same receding hairline, deep blue eyes, taste in clothes and music, obsession for sports, and love for us, even though he was a little taller and his voice, a lot deeper.
I’ll always remember the day of Kelly’s snafu. When it comes to mind, I’ll be wishing I could remember the times when I was confused by the two that always looked identical. But mostly, I’ll be wishing that someday my own children would get to look from their grandpa to Uncle Al with a look of bewilderment. But Uncle Al has passed away, so there will be no more kissing the guy who looks just like Papa. Papa will need a lot of kisses now.
Spanky Moves To the City
ReplyDeleteSpanky is a big bulldog.
He has spent his whole life in the country.
In the morning when he wakes up,
Marlo, the mom person, opens up the back door.
Spanky runs outside. He runs and runs, as fast as his little legs will carry him.
He especially loves to run in the tall grass.
It makes him feel like a coyote on the prairie.
He sniffs at all the wonderful smells in the back yard: squirrels, raccoons, and deer.
Sometimes, the little person, Danielle, comes to play with him in the yard.
They run and run until Spanky decides to take a nap in the sunshine.
When Spanky is bored of being outside, he trots back to the house.
He whines at the door.
Marlo lets him back in.
Then Spanky goes down to the basement.
It is dark and cool.
He has his own couch with a blanket just for him.
He curls up and sleeps away the morning—as bulldogs like to do.
One day, Spanky heard a lot of noise upstairs. He went up to investigate.
There were boxes everywhere.
And there were men are carrying the boxes to a truck.
“Come on,” Marlo said to Spanky.
She put a collar and leash on Spanky—“it’s time to get in the car for the big move.”
Spanky pulled against the collar and leash, but that only choked him and made it hard to breathe.
Marlo loaded Spanky and Danielle into the car.
Spanky looked out the window as Marlo drove.
He saw his favorite fields disappearing.
There were houses and big buildings in the distance.
There were a lot of cars. They were honking and buzzing by the car window.
ReplyDeleteAfter a long time, Marlo pulled up in front of a tall building.
It had three windows stacked on top of one another.
Marlo unbuckled Danielle and pulled Spanky’s leash.
He jumped out of the car, but she wouldn’t let go of that leash.
“Ack!” he thought, “she’s choking me.”
He pulled and pulled, but Marlo made him sit right next to her.
Then another dog came by. He was with his person and she was holding a leash too.
The dog barked at Spanky—he sounded mean. .
“Yikes!” thought Spanky. He hid behind Marlo.
Spanky didn’t know if he liked this dog so he barked back, “Go Away!”
Then Marlo tugged Spanky to the door of the tall building.
When he got inside the door, he couldn’t believe his eyes.
There were stairs as far as he could see.
They went up, and up, and up!
Marlo told him to go, but Spanky didn’t know if his short little legs could go all the way.
When he got to the top and went around the corner, THERE WERE MORE STAIRS!
When he finally got to the top, Marlo opened the door and he and Danielle went inside.
There was only one couch.
Where was Spanky’s couch?
Where would he nap?
“I don’t like this at all,” thought Spanky.
Spanky wanted to see the yard. He whined to go out.
Marlo said, “Ok.”
She picked up his leash and held Danielle’s hand.
They went back down all those stairs.
When they got outside, Spanky waited for Marlo to take off his collar and leash.
But she didn’t. She just started walking him down the block.
Spanky hated his collar, it made him itch.
ReplyDeleteAnd with the leash, he couldn’t run like he used to.
Marlo walked him around the block.
When they got back to the tall building—the apartment building,
Spanky realized he would have to climb all the stairs again.
Spanky didn’t know if he could do this every time he wanted to go out.
Back inside, Spanky looked around for a spot to nap.
Danielle spread his blanket out on the couch and patted the seat next to her.
“Wait,” thought Spanky, “I get to nap on the same couch as Danielle!”
Spanky jumped up on the couch and snuggled in next to Danielle.
“Hmmm,” thought Spanky, “maybe this isn’t so bad!”
When Spanky woke up, Marlo called him.
She had his leash in her hand.
Spanky and Danielle trotted down the stairs.
Outside, the three of them set off down the block.
Spanky found lots of new smells, and some of the same ones from the country!
Rabbits, squirrels, mice…he sniffed every tree and patch of grass.
While they waited for cars at the corner, Spanky sat down to rest.
Marlo scratched his ears.
“Mmmmm, that feels nice,” thought Spanky, “I could get used to this.”
And so Spanky became a city dog.
Sometimes, he even found a patch of tall grass to wade through, just like a coyote.
How Did I Get Here?
ReplyDelete“How did I get here? What did I do wrong? Bad things do not happen unless you do something wrong…right?” There I sat, telephone in my hand, trying to speak, but the words would not come out. Each time I tried, choking, sobbing, but no words. Words were impossible. Nothing in life prepared me for this.
Feeling trapped in my wheelchair, I barely noticed the beeping machinery, the tangle of wires surrounding me, the flurry of doctors and nurses. I looked down and stared at the antiseptic linoleum floor, anything, just to gain the ability to speak. I think to myself, “So this is what it feels like to have lost all control.” My husband slowly takes the phone out of my hand, careful not to disturb the IV, and calmly begins.
“Hi Mom and Dad. Yeah, they just transferred him to the Special Care Unit. They said they need to run some more tests. We should know more tomorrow.”
Hours later, I am still sitting. I look over and through the dim light. I see my husband dozing off in the teal plastic chair on the other side of the incubator. It is just after midnight and the nurse tells us we should go upstairs now. Reluctantly, I allow my husband to wheel me out of the unit. “Don’t forget, if he starts to cry, you can always call me. I’ll be right upstairs. I know how busy you are.” The nurse gives us an experienced smile and says we can come back any time we would like.
Early the next morning, I am back. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE TEST RESULTS ARE NOT IN YET!!!” An obviously less experienced nurse attempts to explain that these tests are never back so quickly and I must be mistaken to think so. In response, I somehow manage to push open the door, slam it shut, and wheel myself into the elevator.
Several minutes later, there is a knock on my hospital room door. The director of the neonatal unit walks in. “How are you?” she gently inquires.
“I’m fine,” I weakly reply. “I apologize for causing a scene. I’ve never lost control of myself like that before. I don’t know what happened.”
“No need to apologize,” she responds. “You have been thrown into a world that you didn’t even know existed. I just wanted to be sure you were O.K. The tests results will be in tomorrow.”
My husband I spend the rest of the day and most of the night taking care of our son in the Special Care Unit. Somehow we make it through the night. Early the next morning, we are back. This time, I am very calm as the nurse tells me the doctor should be in soon with the test results.
Several hours later the doctor enters the room. He is a redhead, like my son, and I feel an instant connection. “Your son is going to be fine.”
“What?” I ask, astonished.
“The tests have come back negative and your son is fine.”
“When can we take him home?”
“Tonight! Your son is a Free-man.”
We brought our son home that night, one week after his birth. In one week’s time I had gone through major surgery and days of an extremely high fever. I had experienced a roller coaster ride of emotions ranging from pure elation to utter despair. I was physically and mentally exhausted. That evening, I tucked my son to sleep, in his very own crib for the very first time. I experienced a sense of peace, strength, and love I could have never imagined. At that moment, I knew more than ever, life would never be the same.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteThings
ReplyDeleteBag
This is the bag
full of my stuff
clenched tightly in my father’s hand
It swings back and forth
like a pendulum as he storms down the sidewalk and
I try to keep up
He finally stops and hands it over
to a woman I’ve never seen before
“Take him. I don’t want him anymore.”
Door
Please door stay strong
Don’t give into his punches
I know they are hard
but in time he will tire, the intensity fades
Just try to hold on
You’re the only thing that can keep me safe
Pelvis
In the most difficult times
she maintained her strength
When I cried she always told me
“You have to have faith”
That’s what pulled her through
and I have it, I do
But only because it’s tattooed
on my pelvis
Bathroom
When sit in darkness and gloom
I often wonder why
did I inherited my mother’s tendency
to lock herself in the bathroom and cry?
Bed
When all is said and done
I just want to fall asleep
I do not want to think
I want to accept defeat
Hidden under the covers of my bed
To me that is my sanctuary
Tree
I chose this quiet tree
near the football field
to hang peacefully
to silence the chaos I feel
from my mother’s constant exchanges of
me for money
Suit
The only person who truly felt I was special
is sleeping in a suit
I will never hug him
or talk to him again
he meant more to me than anything
I wonder if he knew
Paper
Difficult things are inescapable
For a while they may remain
Unbreakable
But sadness is not my fate
So I’ll put everything on this paper
and let It
carry their weight
Short Story
ReplyDeleteJenny Vaughn
Robert looked out the window of his ranch house, through the bushes at the empty street and thought, “why me?” His dog Holly, an overweight beagle, brushed passed his legs. Her crooked tail wagged back and forth at an erratic pace and Robert reached down to pat the top of her head. His black dress pants had bits of her fur stuck to them. As Robert reached down to brush them off he looked over his carefully put together ensemble: dress shoes and socks, red button down dress shirt, and red suspenders with Santa Clauses on them. He put these clothes on earlier that day after he had showered, shaved, and carefully combed his long hair from the far right side of his head over to the far left side of his head. Now all he could do was stand there in his brown, drab living room with his head hung low and his shoulders slumped recalling the sizable error he had made earlier that day.
A tear slipped down the cracks of his wrinkled and slightly leathery face. Just as it hit the corner of his mouth and he was able to taste the saltiness the phone rang. “Hey dad. I heard you are all dressed up with nowhere to go.” His daughter Janet always tried to be comforting. Sometimes he appreciated this style of banter. It made him feel almost normal or, as close to normal as he could be lately.
“Hello Janet. Yes, I can’t believe that it is not Christmas day. I guess I will have to get up and do this all over again tomorrow.” Robert could hear a little chuckle but, he mostly heard a dismal sounding sigh.
“Ok dad. We will see you tomorrow. It will be like the movie Groundhogs Day. You will get up and do the same things all over again: shower and shave, put on your holiday clothes, drive over to Rita’s, and she will bring you out to our house for the celebration.” Robert wasn’t sure if she was making a joke this time or if she was worried that he wouldn’t remember to do all those things tomorrow. Maybe she thought he would show up without pants.
“Bye Janet. I will see you tomorrow…with my pants.”
“What?”
“Never mind. See you tomorrow.” He hung up the phone, grabbed a cold Bud Select out of the refrigerator, lit a cigar, and headed down to the basement family room. Holly followed along and jumped onto the overstuffed chair in front of the TV. Robert picked up a stack of photos pushed Holly aside and took his place on the well worn cushion. He loved to go through the photos and remember every detail about every event that he could. He loved recalling the funny, happy, and even sad moments of his life. He loved to wonder about what roads lay ahead for his precious family members. This ritual could last long into the night. Robert loved to make it last knowing that is was a good distraction from his current reality. He knew that if it was too quiet he would think about himself. He hated feeling sorry for himself. He didn’t like wondering why something like this had happened to him. And most of all, he hated wondering when he wouldn’t be able to wonder about anything, anymore.
The Ghost Part I
ReplyDeleteBy Tiffani Kuhn
My step dad Mike knew how to throw parties, and boy was this 4th of July party the best, that is until it ended. Fireworks spangled in the air, burgers grilled ‘til almost midnight, music blared and children ran amuck.
Mike yelled at me because I threw his friends son into a vat of ice, “hey that’s where snotty kids belong,” I told him as I ran before I could get myself into more trouble. That night was spectacular but it ended for me by heading to bed, being that I was sixteen with my first job I knew I had to go to bed in order to be up early the next day. The party for my parents however kept on going, this is where my party and unfortunately for Mike it truly ended.
The next morning music rudely blasted into my eardrums announcing it was time to catch the bus. I dressed and I ran upstairs, the telephone rings… “hello?” “It’s Dave, is your dad up?” “Let me check,” I answer. I quickly rush into the living room where normally even if Mike went to bed an hour previously, he would be up, yelling for a sandwich and some Rolaids. “No, he’s still asleep.” “Is he alive?” Dave asks jokingly. “Yea,” I reply. “He’s snoring.” Was he ever, there he slept in an overstuffed beige armchair head tilted back, leg crossed over the other, snoring like a beast was trying to be let out of a cage. “Well have him call me when he gets up, ok?” “Sure.” I answered as I scribbled a message on a nearby note pad and then bounded for the bus, so I wouldn’t be late.
Work dragged, I was pre-occupied, I was a teenager and I was having teenage problems. After work I went to try and console my teenage problems by meeting up with a friend. We sat in the park and talked for hours, pretty soon it was getting late and I had a curfew I needed to get home by, besides the next day was another day of work. I made it home and while approaching the house I noticed how dimly lit the house was, there wasn’t a TV blaring, or kids screaming, matter of fact the only light on in the house seemed to be coming from the dining room. Upon entering the house my parents friend greeted me, I asked where everyone was, he told me my mom was at the hospital with Mike, and to call her, he handed me the number. “Is everything alright?” I asked. “You should talk to your mother.” He replied. As I looked at the number and contemplated what I might be facing, the phone rang. It was my mom, she explained to me that while I was at work, hours had passed and they tried to wake Mike up, he wouldn’t budge. They attempted several times before they decided they would need to carry him to the car and get him to the hospital.
The Ghost Part II
ReplyDeleteAt the hospital my mom explained the doctors ran several tests. He had overdosed the night of the party and as soon as he sat in that beige chair he had multiple strokes. He was in a coma and had no use of his brain if he woke up…”if” he woke up….. My mom said “a vegetable.” My head was spinning, how was this so? My brother wasn’t even a month old; he needed a father, my sisters? They needed their dad. He was lying in the hospital without any of us knowing whether or not he would make it out.
My mom went to see him every day in the hospital, she shaved him and talked to him and brought taped recordings of my sister talking to him. It was confirmed he was brain dead, even if we woke from the coma, he would never talk or walk again, and my mother couldn’t afford the after care. He was on a feeding tube because he couldn’t feed himself. A few weeks passed and the moment came when a decision had to be made on whether or not he would remain on the feeding tube. They took him off. That night he came to me in a dream, and told me everything would be ok. He died three days later.
My brother was only a month old, he would never have someone to play ball with, someone to teach him how to be a man, never give him advice about girls or how important school is. He would never walk my sister down the aisle or dance the father daughter dance at her wedding. He wouldn’t see me graduate high school or even college and he will never meet his grandchildren. Sometimes I wonder if things would have been different had he still been alive, sometimes I wonder if he was ever there at all or was he just a ghost?
You Can’t Hurt My Heart
ReplyDeleteFadwa Rantisi
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me. Kate sat at the kitchen table thinking about what she had yelled out, when the girls on the bus started to tease her. Kate thought about how such a lie that phrase really was. Who came up with that phrase anyway? To be honest, Kate’s feelings were hurt and the embarrassment she felt at school today was going to take some time for her to get over. She learned that the only way to stop girls like Tiffany and Tricia was to stand up to them, and have confidence in herself. She proved to that today when she finally stood up and defended herself against the two meanest girls in school.
The whole thing started over the attention she was getting from Eric, one of the boys that was in her second period Math class. It turned out that Tiffany and Eric dated for a couple months before they broke up, but it turned out that Tiffany wasn’t ready for Eric to move on and talk to other girls. This made Kate her new target for all her anger and she had no problems telling Kate exactly how she felt about her.
“Ok class have a seat and open up your books to page 153,” said Mrs. Anderson “today will be continuing or discussion on how to solve irregular fractions.”
As Kate was turning to the page, Amy taps her on her shoulder and passes her a note.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Who’s the ugliest girl in school?
Kate it’s you!!!!!
“Kate, are you paying attention?” Mrs. Anderson asks “Is that a note in your hand?”
“Yes, but I didn’t………”
“Stand up and read it to the class.”
“Can I just throw it away? I promise not to read notes in class again.
“That’s not fair, Mrs. Anderson, the rule is that if we get caught with a note we have to read it in front of the class.” Tiffany said in a vindictive tone of voice.
“You know the rules Kate, please read the note.” Mrs. Anderson repeated.
I knew I was going to die of embarrassment, but I began reading the words on the page “Roses are red, Violets are blue, who is the ugliest girl in school? Kate it’s you!!!!”
Just like I knew it would happen, the entire class began laughing. “Settle down class, we have wasted enough time” I could hear Mrs. Anderson over all the laughing. I could hear Tiffany and Tricia congratulating each other on a job well done. I had never felt so small or hurt in all my life. I felt like my heart was tight and it was going to explode in my chest. I couldn’t see anything through the tears that had accumulated in my eyes. I refused to cry in front of the class, so I asked if I could be excused to go to the bathroom. Mrs. Anderson nodded her head, and I could see the pity in her eyes.
While I washed my face, I decided that I was not going to let them hurt me like that again. They didn’t have the right to make feel hurt and ashamed of whom I was. I vowed that the next time Tiffany came after me I was going to be ready for her and her little sidekick.
You Can’t Hurt My Heart
ReplyDeleteContinued- Part II
You Can't Hurt My Heart
Fadwa Rantisi
I was dreading the bus ride home, because I knew that Tiffany and Tricia would choose that time to attack me again. It was the perfect setting; there would be a large group of spectators that had nothing better to do then watch their performance. They had another thing coming, if they thought I was going to let them take the leading role. Sure enough, as the bus was turning out into the street I hear Tiffany’s obnoxious voice.
“Did you guys hear about what happened in Mrs. Anderson’s class.” she said.
“I think you should tell us again, just in case everyone didn’t hear about what happened.” replied Tricia. “I mean we don’t want anyone to feel left out.”
“How about I tell everyone what happened, so they can get another perspective.” I said. I could feel all eyes on me. I’m sure some of them thought I was crazy, but I was determined not to let them get to me. “What happened in class today was that a very insecure bully and her little sidekick didn’t have the guts to come and tell me that Tiffany was jealous of my friendship with Eric. Each sharing half a brain, they got together and wrote a bad poem. I mean it could have least been more original, really, Roses are red……that is so last year. It turns out that the joke is on them……wait for it……….. I’m holding for dramatic effect…. Regardless of what you think of me or what childish prank you try to pull next, nothing you can say or do will ever hurt my feelings again. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.”
Tiffany’s face was bright red when she said. “I’m not jealous of you and Eric; in fact we are back together.”
“Yeah,” said Tricia “I heard him ask her out at lunch today.”
Everyone started laughing again, but I wasn’t going to back down at let her have the final word. “That’s ok I’m done with him anyway, help yourself to my leftovers.
Getting off the bus, I could hear the kids laughing and talking about how it was about time that someone finally put Tiffany in her place.
Overeducated and Unemployed: Not at all What Mama Talked About (Editorial in the Works)
ReplyDeleteBy: Rachel Pomykala
Is one even able to count the number of times they have heard the words, “You can’t get anywhere in life without an education”? Perhaps Kanye had it right when he said, “You gotta get them degrees.” Whoever said it, and however it was said holds no meaning in this day and age. We have a crisis on our hands in our educational system, more specifically the public schools. I was among fifteen people at our school to have been laid off this academic year only a week prior to commencement. I was one of the few to actually speak in person to the principal; all others had to find out through a voicemail message. What were the real motives behind our being let go? According to the principal, it was a Human Resource (HR) decision. According to HR, it was a reduction in the budget. According to the news, we as educators are insufficient. Either way, this doesn’t explain why my position was filled by someone with fewer credentials at the point of hire, or the fact that someone who already obtained my current certificate was also let go. Seniority didn’t even play a factor in saving the Literacy Teacher’s position or the bringing back teachers that were untenured.
Why is that teachers like myself are finding themselves among the pool of unemployed teachers and bright-eyed newcomers, just trying to stay afloat? Is it of no worth to have a drive to immerse oneself in education and seek the specialization that it takes to meet the needs of our diverse population of students? What has become of our values in education and furthering our careers with intelligence? It is no surprise that the massive laying off of highly-qualified teachers is becoming a new trend in our school system. What are these factors in the hiring-and-firing process indicating to us about the route of our pedagogy? It seems that the underlying premise for this trend is no news to us. The same political underpinnings that have always steered our schools are continuing to hold reign to this very day.
After witnessing the amount of change that can happen to a school in a matter of one year, the aftermath can be devastating. It was in that short twelve-month period that a long-time principal walked away during the first week of teacher in-service, that we also received an interim principal that was the epitome of effective leadership, and ended with an underhanded Local School Council (LSC) decision to bring in a person with their own best interests in mind, staff included. Having been a product of the Chicago Public School (CPS) system, and planning my life-long career and my unborn daughter’s journey here, I had my mind made up. This situation has left me jaded in a way that stabs at one’s hope for a future. I am left with no choice but to make the decision of making a life for myself and my child, a decision perhaps outside of my comfort zone.
I read a portion of a memoir of a former boy soldier, Ishmael Beah, from Sierra Leone. Although he has turned his life around, he writes that he sometimes has nightmares of being murdered by other soldiers. I wrote this poem imagining the lasting psychological trauma that he may face. I wrote as if I had those experiences and if I woke up from his nightmare of being killed.
ReplyDeleteWaking from the Nightmare of a Boy Soldier
By Betsy Serilla
And then I wake up, but for the time being, my state of consciousness matters not.
Sweat drips from my brow when I sit up, sizzling when it hits my heaving chest.
Blood beats against eardrums,
Teeth clench against teeth, jaw muscles taut from repeated abuse.
And then, as if the gun
The white tablets
The other boys
Are still beside me
I yearn for the poppoppop of my
AK-47—
It was always louder than the blood rushing behind my ears
I salivate for the white tablets—
Enough of them would always keep me from dealing with the paralyzing tiredness that settles in when the anger/fear/hatred wears off
I search for the boys
Knowing too many are dead
Will continue to become dead
Before I can ever kill all of the ones who will kill them
Because you can take the gun
from my hands
But you can’t take the
Blood
Sweat
Screams
Eyes wide
Friends dead
Innocence dead
Dreams forever nightmares
But you can’t take the gun
From my head.
I Wait
ReplyDeleteby Nicole Jackson
I count minutes
I wait days
Holding my breath
that you will return
Then I remember your last breath
in my arms that night
For once it was me who held you
For once it was you who was cold
Our last embrace
I held you gently
like I held our girls so long ago
Rocking your spirit slowly to another life
Humming prayers you'd find your way without me
My aged hands smoothing your hair
One more last time to remember
White hair, coarse with age
That cowlick still alive and well even as you lay dying
I watched you
Each breath erasing more
more color, more life, all pain
My scream lay waiting
Only whispers of love for you my dear
But scream I do when I remember
When minutes have passed
each one a possible return,
a return of you
and still you are gone
Could closing the achievement gap be a question of motivation? - Part 1
ReplyDeleteAn essay by Laura M.
The education dialogue in our country currently revolves strongly around improving teacher quality via various incentives and punishments. Often, teachers feel poked, prodded, measured, and intimidated by these new measures. However, at the end of the day, our students aren’t succeeding they way we would hope, and it is our responsibility to find ways to provide each child in our country with the education they deserve, regardless of their zip code. After five years of day-to-day experiences working in an under-resourced, low-performing public school coupled with two years of a master’s program examining quality practice (and the barriers to student achievement), I virtually always feel overwhelmed by the bleak prospects for improving teaching and learning, especially for the students who need it the most. However, and I’m surprised to be writing this, I recently read a brief by the Hamilton Project which left me with a real sense of excitement about the potential progress of our profession.
The piece offered prospects for elevating the profession by expanding the pool of people drawn to education via incentives for teachers in challenging situations and alternative routes to teaching. As an alum of an alternative certification program, I believe in the high-quality teachers they recruit and the work that they do. Programs like mine have a proven record of selecting candidates who are not only effective, but committed to the work of larger, systemic change. (As evidence, a large majority of my colleagues in my education policy fellowship were also alternatively certified.) Throughout my career, I’ve often felt belittled by peers from outside of the profession who comment on how “nice” it is that I teach on the south side, or how “fun” it must be, or who tell me how much they wanted to be a teacher until they “grew up” and decided to become a lawyer, consultant, doctor, etc. As a graduate of an elite university who chose teaching with intention, it’s frustrating to hear that other people with educations like mine would, currently, never consider the route that I took.
Could closing the achievement gap be a question of motivation? - Part 2
ReplyDeleteAn essay by Laura M.
I must be clear, though, it’s only a very small part of me cares personally that others don’t value the work I do; instead, what bothers me most is to see smart, passionate, engaging people – people who students would be lucky to sit before every day – dismiss the notion that teaching would ever be a viable route for their lives. We must raise the bar and recruit quality teachers. But, how? I recently watched a video online compiled by the RSA in London which summarized an excerpt of a talk by Daniel Pink around his work on motivation (which is totally worth the ten minutes, though be careful of getting addicted to the RSA feed – especially the one on education paradigms! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u6XAPnuFjJc&feature=channel). It was in the back of my mind the entire time I read about the potential for incentivizing teaching in high-poverty schools. Pink’s work proved that significant incentives tend to work only when the task is simple; when a task is complex, people are far more motivated by autonomy, mastery, and a sense of purpose. (He did mention briefly, though, that all people should be well-paid from the get go, which would foster motivation, as well.) How can we attract teachers who will be driven by education’s great potential to help them find a purpose, make an impact, and become successful?
When I think about what has made me successful in my classroom over the years, so little of it has to do with any of my credentials. I decided to become a teacher after spending 3 years teaching writing workshops inside of Michigan prisons and juvenile detention facilities. Inside of those places, I saw the consequences of inequitable schools, poverty, and social injustice firsthand. I realized the great responsibility our schools have in ensuring that all students get a chance to find their meaningful, productive role in society, and how severe the consequences can be if a person doesn’t find these quality opportunities. The experiences I had during those years indelibly marked me, and I believe that they significantly impact my work as a teacher and my commitment to my students. Nowhere would this show up on current measures of my credentials, but that work definitely pushed me into education with a sense of purpose and the urgency to master my work. I saw how high the stakes were for kids. I’m left wondering, though, how can we find others with experiences like mine who are driven by their passion for equity and draw them into our field? And if others with those experiences don’t exist, is there a way to create chances for others to see how badly our schools need them and attract them that way? Could we suggest (or even require) all college students to spend time working in a community unlike theirs before granting them a degree?
Could closing the achievement gap be a question of motivation? - Part 3
ReplyDeleteAn essay by Laura M.
At the end of the day, in the pit of our stomachs, we all know how important the work we do is. There must be a way to translate this to others meaningfully and persuasively. At this point in my life, whenever I’m met with another awesome person who says they wanted to be a teacher “until,” I always take the chance to urge them to reconsider; our students need them.
Never the Same
ReplyDeletePart 1
I sat on the edge of the stiff plastic chair, anxiously swinging my legs back and forth. Any second the door in front of me was going to open, and I was fairly certain that with it was going to come the news that my life was over. Dilemmas that consumed me only a few days before – which prom dress accentuated my curves in the right places or whose car we could use to drive down to Florida for spring break – now seemed a world away. I wondered what would happen to my scholarship to Tennessee. Hopefully they would give the money to someone else who needed it, who deserved it. Even if I could somehow still go away to college next year, I was pretty sure that they would revoke my academic award once they found out about the stupid decisions I’d made the last few months. Clearly I wasn’t the student they thought they were getting.
As I was trying to recall the return policy for the bathing suit that I had recently bought but most likely would not be wearing any time soon, I heard footsteps approaching from down the hall. My breath caught itself in my throat, tied into a huge knot, and refused to budge. This was it, the confirmation of the truth that I had avoided for so long. I had noticed all of the signs, but had refused to do anything for the last few weeks, hoping that ignoring them would make them somehow disappear.
“Hi Mya, I’m Dr. Robinson,” a young woman with a model-like build said to me as she entered the room. She was the most attractive Grim Reaper that I had ever seen.
“I reviewed your chart and your blood work that the nurse took earlier and…”
The knot in my throat tightened, making it impossible to breathe. Maybe I would suffocate before I even heard the news.
No such luck.
“You’re pregnant!” she exclaimed with a gigantic smile that I think was supposed to make me excited about the catastrophe, like when parents smile and clap when their baby falls in attempt to trick them from feeling the pain and bursting into tears.
It didn’t work. I realized then that I had been holding on to some faint glimmer of hope that the five home pregnancy tests I took earlier that week had all malfunctioned. I let out a huge sigh and with it any hope that I would continue with my normal teenage life.
“If this is the part where I’m supposed to squeal and hug you and tell you how excited I am, it’s not going to happen,” I said to her through watery eyes.
I watched Dr. Robinson’s smile quickly fade.
“There’s no expectation for how you should be feeling,” she said to me sympathetically as she handed me a tissue and a handful of brochures. “But you should also know that you have choices.”
“Thanks,” I said, although I knew that all of my choices had already been made. This was now my reality and I had to start living it.
I managed to beat my parents home and found myself simultaneously relieved and disappointed. I wasn’t sure how I was going to face the disappointment that I was going to bring to their faces, yet at the same time I wanted nothing more than to be held in my mother’s arms and be told that everything was going to be alright. How could I possibly be a mom to someone else when I couldn’t survive without my own?
Part 2
ReplyDeleteAfter sufficiently soaking my pillow with tears, I turned on my back and stared at the ceiling. My hands floated to my chest and found the silver heart that had been draped around my neck for as long as I could remember.
“Is this how you felt?” I said aloud into the empty room, hoping that somewhere, somehow, my birth mother would be able to hear me. I had found out I was adopted around the age of eight, as soon as my parents thought that I could handle the news. I had no knowledge of my birth mother, other than that she left me with this necklace, which I wore constantly. It was our only connection. I loved my parents and had a hard time imagining my life without them, but I had never fully forgiven my birth mother for not giving me a chance. I swore that I would never let my children feel unwanted the way that I had and so I knew that I had no choice but to have this baby and raise it the best that I could. But until then, I still had seven months to resent everything about being pregnant and how my life would never again be the same.
It took a while for me to finally share my secret with anyone. I just couldn’t bring myself to say the words aloud. It was as if the minute the words escaped my lips, I gave them permission to be real. After confiding in a few close friends, I realized this was the type of information that you wish people would just find out from someone other than yourself. I couldn’t take one more astonished face or question of “What are you going to do?” I contemplated how much it would cost to take out an ad in the school newspaper that simply said, “Mya Robinson is pregnant and she is keeping the baby.”
“I can’t believe you still haven’t told your parents yet,” Jessica, my best friend scolded me as we walked to fourth period together.
She was right, that revelation was going to have to come before a newspaper ad.
“I just haven’t found the right time,” I whined.
“You know perfectly well that it is NEVER going to be the right time. You better just get it over with. Like tearing off a band aid.”
The thought of that conversation made me sick to my stomach. Literally. I felt a sharp pain in my stomach. This pregnant thing was a tough adjustment in more than one way.
“Hey Jess, I’m going to run to the bathroom real quick before class.”
“You better hurry, the bell’s about to ring.”
“I know, see you in a few,” I shouted as I escaped into the washroom.
I wasn’t entirely sure how this whole pregnant thing was supposed feel just yet. I had heard about morning sickness, but didn’t really imagine that it would be this bad.
I staggered into a stall just as the bell rang. Well, I’d have to figure out how to explain my tardiness, but at least I’d have the luxury of getting sick in private.
“Ugh,” I said aloud as I doubled over from another jolt of pain. As I was bent over I noticed a large dark spot on the inner thigh of my jeans. I quickly unbuttoned my pants and suddenly found myself covered in more blood than I had ever seen.
“This is it, I’m dying,” I thought to myself. I began to feel dizzy as the pain in my stomach intensified. Everything began to feel very far away as I slowly fell to my knees.
***
“Mom?” I awoke in a strange room with my mother’s eager eyes staring into mine.
“Oh honey, it’s me. It’s ok, it’s ok.”
These are words to a picture book I've been working on. There are some pictures that go with the lines.
ReplyDeleteIcicles on my Bicycle
Icicles on my eyelashes
Frozen snot on my face
Squinting to see
Muscling to make the light
Energy from inside
Pushing to pass
Chill burning my cheeks
Numb knees
Air aches my lungs
Sweaty hair smashed
Helmet heating my head
Nostrils sticking nose together
Toes totally toughened
Brakes not braking
Skidding, sliding, slipping through stop light
Accident avoided
Boot brakes burn through sole
Unlayering over clothes
Dampness drying
Redness returning
Cooling core
Ready for reading
Part 3
ReplyDelete“Oh no, she knows,” I thought to myself. My eyes scanned the room. I was clearly in a hospital of some type. Both of my parents, as well as Jessica and some nurses all seemed to be looking at me anxiously.
“Jess…” I heard myself say faintly.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re ok!” she said through her tears. “When you didn’t show up in class I asked for a pass and then I found you passed out in the bathroom and there was so much blood and, and, and I had to tell them,” she finished and looked down at the ground.
“It’s ok Jess. Thank you for being a good friend. You did what you had to do.” I knew that she felt she had betrayed me
I looked at my parents. “I was going to tell you, I really was, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I knew you would be so disappointed and…”
“Mya,” my mom cut me off. “You had a miscarriage. You are going to be ok, but you lost the baby.”
I starred at her in disbelief. I had never even told my mother that I was pregnant, and suddenly here she was telling me that I wasn’t.
Everyone starred at me for my reaction. And suddenly I was very confused. When I first heard that I was pregnant, I would have done anything to make it go away. I wanted nothing to do with a baby or anything that went along with it. I just wanted to be a normal teenager and enjoy my senior year. I should be happy about this news then, right? Suddenly, I was free of my burden. I could pretend none of this nightmare ever happened.
Then why did I suddenly feel so empty, so lost, as if something was missing. How was it possible to miss something that you didn’t want in the first place? Could I have wished this child away with all of my negative thoughts? I was suddenly overtaken by an extreme wave of guilt.
“We have to do a few more tests,” the nurse announced as she politely escorted everyone out of the room.
When they were gone, she turned and winked at me. “I thought you might need some space.”
“Thanks.” I smiled. I suddenly became very tired. I would have to figure out how to feel about all of this later.
“I may not be ready to be a mom yet,” I thought to myself as I reached to make sure my silver heart was still in its correct place. “But someday, someday…”
Kari Corsi
ReplyDeleteShort Story Part 1
Dani stormed into her room, throwing her door behind her. The noise of the slam made the whole house shudder as it hit the doorframe. She was so sick of her parents always telling her what they thought she should do. She had heard so many different reasons why she should think the way they do and she was tired of feeling as though she had to constantly value their opinions while they seemed to disregard hers. “When will they realize that it’s what I want?!” Dani thought as she sobbed into her pillow, grabbing the sides of it so tight as she tried to squeeze out the pain she felt in her heart. The warmth flooded her face and ran into a deep stream onto the creases of the pillow. No matter how hard or long she sobbed, she couldn’t seem to rid herself of the suffering that tormented her.
The longer and harder she cried the more pain she felt. It was a spiral that she couldn’t seem to pull herself out of. This was never a part of the “plan” she had envisioned for her life, but then again, when had her life ever looked the way she had thought it should? Her parents’ rocky marriage had ended in a divorce, which followed by her father moving hours away to follow his dreams and his job, leaving her and her mom to be someone else’s problem. All she had ever wanted from him was to feel loved, to feel valued, as though he cared for her the way she cared for him. Dani shuddered when she thought of him, the idea that he could careless what she did with her life.
She heard the knock on the door and wanted to pretend like she was asleep knowing full well that whomever was on the other side of that door would know better.
“Dani, your mother and I want to finish our conversation…” she heard her stepdad say through the door.
Dani thought to herself, “the last thing I want to do is listen to what YOU think and hear all about how YOU feel in this situation.” Dani had often thought about all the ways her mom had changed since she had married Bill. He had definitely come between their relationship and she found herself feeling more like a stranger than a daughter to her mom.
“Dani, this is a bit ridiculous. Don’t you think this situation calls for you to grow up a little bit? Isn’t it time you stop acting like a child?” her mother’s tone cut into Dani as the words poured from her lips.
A funny combination of fury and sadness erupted inside of Dani as she listened to them continue to beat her spirit down more and more. Being pregnant at 17 was never something that she thought would happen to her. Ever. This wasn’t her idea of a “good time” or a way to spice things up.
Short Story Part 2
ReplyDeleteIf she could rewind the past three months of her life, she would gladly do it. If she could take back all the firsts that she had given him, she would yank them back in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, Dani knew all to well that you can’t take things back. Once they’re done, they’re done.
She clutched her stomach thinking about what was happening inside her. Something that was supposed to bring such joy and hope to your life was only bringing worry and misery to hers. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” she thought.
“Dani, all we ask is that you think about what we discussed. Please, don’t rule anything out yet,” she heard her mom say as she listened for what was to come. She was happy to hear the footsteps leading away from her door and down the hallway. They had given up for the time being. Dani was left alone to be tormented by her own thoughts.
The sun shined bright into the room, illuminating the shadows that the night had casted. Dani rolled over and peered confusingly into space. “What time is it?” she thought as she looked at her clock. Somehow, in the midst of all her worries, she had managed to fall asleep. She got up and looked at the puffy-eyed girl staring back at her in the mirror. While the urge to stay in bed was overwhelming, Dani knew she couldn’t do that. She had to face her parents at some point, and she knew it was better to do it now than later. If she had learned anything from them, it was that they were relentless and if she didn’t decide for and stand up for herself early on, they would continue to beat her down until they had won. She threw on her gym shorts and a t-shirt. She pulled the comb through her hair and tied it back with a rubber band. “Good enough,” Dani mumbled to herself as she opened her door and headed down the stairs to confront the mighty force.
As soon as she turned the corner she saw her mom sitting at the table staring off into space with her usual cup of coffee sitting in front of her. Situated right next to her mom was her stepdad, enjoying his morning routine of reading the paper. Dani deeply inhaled and swallowed hard, trying to wish away the butterflies she felt in her belly – or was that the baby, surely it was too early to feel it.
“Good morning,” her mom said flatly as she forced a smile across her face.
“Good morning,” Dani’s response trailed off into the silence.
Her stepdad cocked his head from around the paper to access the situation. Dani walked straight to the pantry to retrieve the cereal, mainly to avoid the conversation that was bound to happen. She fumbled through the choices, Toasted O’s, Fruity O’s, Sugary-Sweet Toast…who really cared? The idea of eating made her nauseous. She grabbed the box in the front and carelessly poured the cereal and milk in a bowl. It was times like these when Dani wished there was an island in her kitchen where she could sit and avoid her parents at the table. She slumped herself in a seat and began to eat trying not to make eye contact. And that’s when she lost it. Before she could even stop herself, she felt the words pouring off of her lips as though they were water flowing freely from a faucet. Dani felt as though she were watching someone else talk to her parents, someone else standing up for what they thought.
Short Story Part 3
ReplyDelete“I heard what you guys were saying last night, I know what you want. But what I really want you guys to hear is what I think about this whole situation. I don’t want to do something that I’ll regret and I’m afraid that if I do what you want me to do then I’ll live my life always wondering if I’d done the right thing. I want you to understand that I don’t think I could live with myself if I was responsible for the death of my own baby,” Dani gulped, trying to hold back the tears building behind her stone cold demeanor.
“Dani, your mother and I feel as if going to the clinic to have the procedure done would be the best for your well-being. You have your whole future in front of you, the rest of your life to start a family,” her stepdad tried to reason with her.
“Dani, what Bill is trying to say is that we think you would have the best chance at living a normal life if we could just erase this mistake and go on like normal. We only want what’s best for you,” her mom said as a tear silently rolled down her face and a weak, fake smile made it’s appearance on her face.
Dani took a deep breath and from somewhere, deep inside herself, mustered up enough courage to take a stand for herself and her unborn child.
“Like I said, I know what you want. I have heard your reasons. I have even considered them. But at the end of the day, there is no way that I could forgive myself for going through with an abortion. I know that there are a lot of people in this world who would love to have a baby to cherish and can’t do that on their own. While I can’t imagine ending the life of my child, I can imagine doing all within my power to give them the best life that I know how. Adoption is the best life I can offer and that is what I’m going to do. I hope and pray that you can find it in your heart and mind to forgive me and to support me through this. God knows that I’ll need your support. No matter what your response is, I’m going through with this and, respectfully, there’s nothing you can do to change my mind,” Dani pushed out the last words as she numbly got up from the table and walked out of the kitchen.
As Dani walked out the front door into the morning breeze she was surprised by how at peace she felt. She had never remained that calm during a confrontation with them and she didn’t know how she managed to do it during this crazy time. She felt different. She felt stronger. She felt more in control. She felt older. Somewhere in all this, Dani had grown up.
Dani’s mom watched her as she walked out the door.
“Unbelievable,” Bill muttered as he forcefully folded the newspaper. “She’s your daughter, what are you going to do to fix this embarrassing mess?!”
After a moment of silence, Dani’s mom voice quietly chimed in, “You know what Bill? This might be the proudest I’ve ever been of her. You might be embarrassed, but surprisingly, I’m not at all.”