Half a mile from my house growing up, we spent a great deal of time together. Everyone told me I had him wrapped around my little finger.
He had a white comb with a few teeth missing, always having to comb his hair when I came to see him. No one else had the magic touch.
Wednesday trips to Washington Plaza, allowed one thing with the senior discount. Pit-stops for sliders, and two-hour adventures at the supermarket, reading every label and comparing every price.
Summer days of counting canned goods can by can, building apple pies slice by slice, constructing furniture piece by piece in which I reflect day by day.
As I grew up, he was always my biggest fan, be it concerts, band trips, or graduations. At my wedding, he cried the most tears, then it was my turn at his funeral.
Memories remain, and always will, of the man who called me “Soupy.”
Do you have a hobby? A place to get away. To clear your mind and Take a break from the day.
This clarity I long for, This energy I desire. I found it on the soccer field, The one place I felt inspired.
I hung up my cleats in college To embark on new journeys in my life. I found a job, lived in the city, And went back to school- twice.
But this hobby thing is haunting me. I feel I’ve tried it all. Running, cooking, fishing… I’ve officially hit a wall.
I will never forget Daniel advising me, during those long undergrad days, “You must find a hobby outside of your career- for peace of mind is priceless in so many ways.”
Today I might not have a hobby, But maybe tomorrow I will. No pressure, no sorrow, no suffering This void I know I can fill.
All bundled up, Dragging his saxophone, He waits at the bus stop, The snow begins to fall. My enemy approaches, Slowly, quietly. “A good mother would drive him,” he whispers. The bus pulls up and I push him away. I race to my car, A narrow escape.
I pull into the parking lot, And make my way, Lost in a maze of Abercrombie t-shirts and ripped jeans, The air fills with the scent of Axe cologne. R-R-R-Ring! He suddenly appears. “Sure cutting it close,” he casually remarks. I race to my classroom, leaving him behind. He grows smaller and smaller. Slowly, he fades away.
Four o’clock already! I speed to reach Extended Care. I peek through the door and notice, The precious few remaining there. As I look behind me, There he is, Larger, stronger, Ready to attack, I take a long, deep breath. Suddenly, an interruption,
“Mom, could you get a cup of coffee? I really want to finish this game.”
Today, I beat him. I smile to myself, Maybe someday The two of us, Will learn to get along.
My LEAST Favorite Word Choose another word, I say. Why? Why do I have to?
Do you even now what that word means? Yeah…well, no.
Then why are you using it? Because I’m mad about the soccer game at recess.
Did you choose that word because it is hateful? Do you know it is a hateful word? Yeah.
Did you want to offend someone? Make them mad? Who would that word offend?
Me. Why? You are not that word.
But it offends me and plenty of other people. I did not mean to offend you. I was just talking about the soccer game.
Well is the soccer game that word? No…
Choose another word. Do you know someone who is that word?
In the sense that you know it, my little brother is. But when I describe him I use words like motivated, caring, helpful, bright, successful, driven, supportive, hilarious, curious, shy…never once would I use the word retarded.
The Ritual The slanting shades are sleepy eyelids closing over late afternoon sun. His hands, dusted with newspaper ink, spoon shaky peaks of sugar into a yellowed mug, two white trails from bowl to cup. Her hands dart in; each finger tipped with long, polished nails, bedecked in Home Shopping baubles. A practiced swipe carries the crystals over the ledge of the brown Formica. This pile of jewels in her palm-- the only diamonds he ever gave her.
Amazingly observant, Relentlessly curious, Innately mischievous. Caring more about living than learning. Trapped by the classroom rules and walls that confined you. You fought back. Teachers’ worst nightmare What if you weren’t so easy to love?
Huge heart, But emotionally insecure. Desperate to be wanted. Always running back to a woman who Cared more about getting her next fix Than the fact that you called her mom. You fought back. Leaving an aunt who was left helpless trying to help. What if you just let someone love you?
Learning disabilities, Broken promises, Failed interventions. “We’ve done what we can,” they said As they showed you to the door. Abandoned by the community you saw as family. You fought back. Tardy, truant, anywhere but the new school. What if we had put up more of a fight?
Thirteen year olds Barely before bits of sunlight slip through the horizon Gallivanting around In a car that’s not their own. Ignored red lights, Crashing metal. Incarcerated? No, incinerated. Did you fight back as the flames swallowed you whole?
Some say you got what you deserved. But they didn’t see how many people failed you along the way. They’re blinded by the poor choices you made that night And not how many were made by others. Truly, who’s to blame? Accompanied by your memory, The haunting question that will not fade- What if?
Snow and the Guys (A Modern Retelling of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves) by Mindy Erickson
Blood red lips, snow white skin— That’s her. Her mom is dead. So is her dad. All that leaves is the evil stepmom. (And boy does she have one.)
All the stepmother does is look at her reflection. Not ruling the kingdom like she should— Only admiring herself In a castle filled with the latest gadgets, Collecting dust.
Snow has to clean everything That the servants won’t go near. She used to care, but now it’s her life, And she knows a secret: He is coming.
That wonderful Prince Charming Who will sweep her off her feet, Taking her to their happily-ever-after, Far away from her current reality.
This is all she thinks about, As she mops, scrubs, and sweeps. No complaints come from her mouth— Not a peep while dusting the plasma screen TV, Her thoughts always of him.
The first time he came, she was unaware, Until his Mercedes drove out of the courtyard. She blew it, and now she’s on the run. Her stepmom wants her dead. She’s got it in her head That Snow is prettier and fairer than she.
So, Snow is hiding in the starless forest— Where wolves howl; owls hoot. Her cell phone has no bars. Her iPod is dead. She’s all alone. No Prince Charming in sight.
She sees a cottage in the distance. No lights are on; the door unlocked. She goes inside, meaning to rest her feet.
All the furniture is small. Except for the massive bed in the bedroom. No technology at all--not even a TV. No one is home. Too tired to think; she falls asleep.
She doesn’t hear them enter. She wakes to see seven pairs of eyes. They are nice gentlemen. Rather small, but gracious. Mostly named for their behavior: Grumpy, Sneezy, Sleepy, Dopey, Happy, Bashful, and Doc. All equally kind—they let her stay.
She repays their kindness by cleaning, And buying them a TV, And each an iPhone. (Don’t act so shocked. She is a princess.)
Each morning the dwarves awaken at dawn. Fortified by the Starbuck’s she brews, They head off on their long commute to work Down at the mines. (Hardly a suit and tie job.) Sometimes singing, Sometimes whistling, Maybe even both.
They are rather rich, Digging up diamonds all day. But all that money was just doing nothing, Until she fixed that— All but rebuilding the house. In their own way they were a family. Height made no difference.
Then . . . She came. An old woman who looked harmless enough. Dear Snow took pity, Not recognizing her own stepmother Who had lost her beauty. (Plastic surgery had been a disaster. She blamed it all on Snow.)
Snow welcomed her to the cottage, a kind host. All the woman had to offer in return was an apple. The woman was eager to see Snow eat it, As she herself had no teeth. (All those chocolates had rotted them out.)
Snow took her only bite. Fell to the ground. The evil woman left, Cackling victoriously. The dwarves returned and called 911, But it was too late.
They had a private funeral in the forest— Only themselves and the animals in mourning. Her coffin wide open, So all could say good-bye To both sister and friend.
How Prince Charming heard of the ceremony is unknown. (Some say Twitter, others Facebook.) He arrived to see he was too late to save his princess. He thought to kiss her a last good-bye, Thinking it the only one they would ever share, But a miracle happened: Snow woke from a nightmare and into her dream.
Now she lives in a brand new castle Equipped with all the latest in castle design. The guys come over for Sunday dinner and holidays.
News came that the stepmother’s broken body was found At the bottom of a ravine, Dying as all evildoers must So those like Snow get the right ending: A happily-ever-after.
My parents did not finish high school, not even close. They came to Chicago from Mexico in the seventies. Their whole lives they worked hard to make sure that their children would not follow in their footsteps. I was sent to one of the top ranked and most expensive all girl, Catholic high schools on the south side of Chicago. My sophomore year, the musical Ragtime had come to the Oriental Theater. My school caught the Ragtime fever. Not only did we get to see it, but also it seemed that in every class we exhaustedly studied and talked about it. The American Dream, immigration, the soundtrack, it was exciting but overwhelming. In first period, Ms. Lorent’s English class, the topic of discussion was immigration. She kept staring at me and I kept looking away. I knew, as the other girls talked about how their great great grandfathers emigrated from Ireland through Ellis Island, that Ms. Lorent also wanted my story and sentiments. It was a topic I did not want to get into. I was the only Latino in the class, in almost every one of my classes. With that ratio, I took the topic of race very seriously and personally. I kept trying to avoid her looks and slithered further and further down my seat. I kept repeating in my head, “Please don’t call on me. Stop looking at me. I'm not talking. I'm not talking.” But when Colleen McFallan said what most of my classmate probably thought, my inner voice was abruptly halted. “I think that it’s okay if people from other places want to come and live here to try and get the American Dream and stuff. But I don’t think that people should be here who don’t even speak English and are illegal aliens, who only talk Mexican.” I closed my eyes and swallowed down my initial reaction to jump over the desk and forcefully shut her mouth. Quietly, I raised my hand and eyebrow, which I tend to do when I am angry. “So, you’re saying that I don’t belong here. Or that I don’t deserve to be here in this school, this country, with you?” “No, Blanca I’m not saying you. You’re from here and speak English. I mean, like…”, she shrugged her shoulders as her messy, dirty blonde ponytail bounced around, popped her gum to the beat of her pen flickering in her hand, scanned the room, stopped, fixed her eyes out the window and pointed with her pen, “them, the grass cutter people.” I swallowed too hard the first time; this one just did not go down. I got up from my chair so fast I knocked it over. “Speak Mexican? First of all, it’s Spanish. Second, I was born in Mexico and English is my second language, so do not assume you know me. Third, those grass cutter people are out there doing a job so that one day they can send their daughters to a school like this so that one ignorant girl like you can tell them they don’t belong!”
I went on and on and finally stopped after I found myself sitting on an ugly leather chair, with my heart and stomach lying on the floor in the dean’s office. They were calling my mother. The dean and the instigator, Ms. Lorent told me that they were proud that I stood up for myself and that I made an intelligent argument but that there was no need to involve my “fellow Hispanic Classmates” and perhaps anger or “God forbid, provoke matters.” At the end of the day, as some of my friends (all Latinas) and I walked out of the school, we caught looks and whispers. Everyone thought that the Latina student body was about to start a war. Colleen’s mother, fearing for her daughter’s safety, had come and taken her home early. Did we retaliate? Most definitely. By my senior year, my classmates and I had successfully established a student founded and run, academically recognized Latina organization called Sisters United (Hermanas Unidas) to promote academic and cultural awareness. I understood at an early age that people like Colleen mostly do not have malicious intentions but rather are ignorant on the topic of race and immigration. That was fourteen years ago. Five years ago, I marched miles from Chicago’s near north side to downtown to promote awareness and retaliate no longer against the misconceptions of teenage girls, but of a nation. In our country, immigration is and has been an issue for many years. Between 1850 and 1880, thousands of Mexican workers immigrated to the US to become field hands in the regions that had very recently belonged to Mexico. The largest presence of Mexican workers in American labor came with the construction of railroads. In 1924, with the implementation of the Border Patrol the term “illegal alien” was born and every undocumented worker that had slaved to help further the economy and prosperity of this country were now deemed fugitives. However, when the US World War II began, the US opened their doors again. In 1942, the US government instituted the Bracero Program. Under this program (which roughly translates to “working arms”) millions of Mexican laborers came to the US under short term contracts to fill a need for agricultural and railroad workers. More than four million Mexicans were given work permits to work the fields of this nation to develop the rich American agricultural industry and by 1947, when the US did not need them anymore; they closed their doors once again. When we look at the past, history does not even shed a tear for the immigrants who built this country on their backs. To repay them meant to exploit them. Not only were they working in slave-like conditions, but still today, half a century later, the few elderly Braceros that remain await wages the US promised but never paid.
Have things changed much? It was not long ago, when former President Bush, to justify new immigration laws, stated “with the war on terrorism the American people need security from terrorists that are infecting our nation.” This was to justify mass deportation raids across America that left broken families. To justify the strict immigration policies which would criminalize anyone who gave assistance to an illegal immigrant. To justify the Minuteman Project, modern day vigilantes who “patrol our borders” at gun point, who feel that “Americans must be reminded that our nation was founded as a nation governed by the ‘rule of Law’, not by the whims of the mobs of illegal aliens who endlessly stream across the US border.” Under former President Bush, immigration reform was supported. Reform that deports deeply rooted people many of whom are working hard to give their children a better future by providing them with a better education. Yet he assured that, “We will honor the American traditions of the melting pot and help immigrants assimilate by learning our history, our values, and the English language.” Arriving to Chicago, as a child and a native Spanish speaker, I was put into a grammar school where no one spoke anything but English and I learned the language in a short time. Learning the language is not the problem. It is speaking with an accent that makes others believe one thinks with an accent. The values I have are a result of my Mexican American heritage. Our American values come from the melting pot of ethnicities and cultures, because to America we are all immigrants, accept the Native Americans. History, American History, I agree must be learned well so that we learn from past mistakes. The issue of immigrants unfortunately creates prejudice and injustice, resulting in people telling others that they do not belong in their school, their job, and their country. I have hopes that President Obama will hold true to his promise of change and amnesty. By chance, I met him when he was Senator at the immigrant march and had the special opportunity to briefly speak to him. I told him I was a college student who supported and admired him. He told me, “It is because of you young people that we are going to change American.” I was an undergraduate then and according to the National Center for Educational Statistics, as a Mexican American, I was part of a tiny fifteen percent population of Latino college students. With Latino youths being the fastest growing population in the USA (an estimated 11 million this year) it is unfortunate that the number of them attempting higher education is so minute. Furthermore, the few of those that are enrolled in college, are only graduating at a low rate of 11% a year. Nevertheless, I felt empowered by his words and hoped to be able to one day make even a small difference. I become a teacher to motivate and support the youths who are discouraged about their futures especially those burdened by racial and economical barriers. Perhaps it is my small part to help promote change and create opportunity. I realized my dream because I had the opportunity of an education, which I would have been denied had my immigrant family been ripped out of this country. Unfortunately, not everyone has the opportunity to an education and it is unjust to cripple those who do. The right to live, work, and learn should be universal and not based on having the right documentation. Families come to American everyday for opportunity and to realize their dreams. All they need once they are here is to be given a fair chance.
The inspiration is lacking, the words are few Sitting and staring at the screen What should I write – should I be witty or deep? Sitting and staring at the screen Everything I come up with I just do not like Sitting and staring at the screen If I sit longer, think harder, maybe something will come? Sitting and staring at the screen Or maybe I’ll just use what I’ve got, although nothing Sitting and staring at the screen
Alliance demonstrates US lack of integrity PART ONE-Jenny Vaughn
It is difficult to imagine a conflict lasting sixty-three years with little hope of a resolution. Since 1948, in the Middle East, the Israelis and Palestinians have been engaged in a dispute over 13,795 square miles of land on the Mediterranean. Violence and infringement of human rights are daily occurrences and thousands of lives have been lost. Throughout that time, the US has helped Israel maintain its superiority over the Palestinians by providing immense amounts of aid in various forms. From 1949 to 2006, the US has provided Israel with more than $156 billion of direct US aid. Additional military aid has been provided in other years as well: in 2006 the US provided $24 billion in 2007 the US gave $30 million, and weapons deliveries and technological support for Israel’s military has been ongoing. (Rabin, 1) The enormous amount of support that the US provides Israel is disgraceful and should be withdrawn because it puts the US in a position to violate her own laws and international law.
Currently, the US has the second largest population of Jews outside of Israel; most of which are located in Skokie, Illinois. Lobbying the government to support Israel has been a primary focus of many of the Jewish political groups. The Jews in the US support a homeland in which Jews can govern their own affairs. Although there are other contributing factors, the Holocaust was the main impetus for this movement. The horrors of the Holocaust were great and the desire to have a safe haven is understandable. However, the Israelis treatment of the Palestinians violates Palestinians human rights and it is deplorable that the US would violate its own laws and support these actions. There have been many reports documenting illegal imprisonment and torture of Palestinians that result in severe injury or death. According to a US law established in 1961, the Foreign Assistance Act, “No assistance [ought to be given] to countries that violate human rights.” In addition, the 1976 US Arms Export Control Act states that “weapons purchased from the US should only be used for self-defense.” But, since September of 2000, more than 6,430 Palestinians civilians have been killed by the Israeli military (including women and children). (Rabin, 1) These pieces of legislation have never been overturned and have been referred to in current cases as justification for lack of funding to other international groups. As a democratic nation it is vital to uphold laws. Lack of adherence to any law will lead to additional violations and those violations will be justifiable because the government of the US is also violating its laws. This is a Pandora’s Box that can quickly spiral out of control and disrupt the foundations of the democracy that has been established.
Alliance demonstrates US lack of integrity PART TWO-Jenny Vaughn
Supporters of Israel may argue that it is acceptable to continue funding because Palestinians also engage in violence against the Israelis and self defense is acceptable action. Members of the group Hamas have gained military equipment like automatic weapons and rockets from other terrorist organizations and countries that support Islam. The organization Hamas has used these weapons in the Gaza Strip and West Bank, which has resulted in 1,084 Israeli deaths since 2000. However, the magnitude of violence has been much higher coming from the Israelis and continues to increase as they try to build settlements in the Gaza Strip and West Bank. The Israelis have been building inside the armistice line that was created. They have bulldozed Palestinian homes and forced many into houses made of scrap, which have not been adequate enough to protect Palestinians. They have continued to use violence to clear the areas that they desire and Palestinians continue to lose their lives. These actions demonstrate that self defense is not a legitimate argument for the Israelis to use and further prove that human rights violations are occurring. Under the established US laws, the government should forgo aid to the Israelis unless they cease aggressive action and human rights violations.
Both the US and Israel, in accordance with the United Nations, are signatories on the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. This document was created to set clear guidelines for the equitable treatment of all human beings worldwide. The violations of this document by the Israelis and the fact that the US is a signatory, requires the government of the US to discontinue monetary and military support for that country. Article 5 of the Declaration states that “No one shall be subject to torture or to cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment.” With the Israelis use of isolation, subjecting prisoners to extremely loud music for extended periods of time, depriving them of light and food, and physically abusing them, Article 5 of the Declaration is being breached. In addition, the document states that “no state or group can perform any act that contributes to the destruction of these rights. By supplying the state of Israel with millions of dollars and a multitude of military supplies, the US is not upholding international laws set out by the United Nations. If self respect is not enough of a consideration for the government to discontinue its support of Israel, the international reputation of the country is at stake as well and should weigh heavily on the decision to cut funding from Israel.
Alliance demonstrates US lack of integrity PART THREE-Jenny Vaughn
It can be argued that the strong relationship the US and Israel has in the United Nations is a valid reason to continue support. Historically, Israel has voted with the US on almost all issues in the UN. This increases the US’ likelihood of getting legislation passed in this international organization. It is unlikely that without continued US support, Israel would sustain its voting record in regards to US policy in the United Nations. Although this is an interesting point for consideration, the continued support of Israel and breaking of international law, has alienated many other countries, especially those in the Middle East. Iran and Syria, both countries with increasing military capabilities have stated that the US will remain an enemy as long as it supports Israel. And, as long as the US continues to send weapons to Israel, these countries will continue to give military support to Hamas. It is not necessary to create alliances with countries that most Americans consider to have extreme viewpoints (many Iranians are Holocaust deniers, for example). However, it is imperative that in an increasingly hostile climate in the Middle East and the Iranians new acquisition of nuclear power, that the US consider the ramifications of their continued support of Israel.
Alliances are a crucial part of any country’s international relationship. Effective alliances can elicit positive results in international organizations and international conflicts that may arise. These factors are reasons why we have sustained a relationship with Britain, once our enemy, for a couple of hundred years. Israel has the potential to be an effective ally for the US. However, it is critical to maintaining our own democracy that we discontinue support until Israel has ceased being an aggressor against Palestine. The US risks the chance of violating laws becoming more and more prevalent as governments use this relationship to justify their own criminal acts. Condemning nations such as Cuba, whose government has similar issues regarding human rights, and then supporting Israel is behavior that puts the integrity of the US in question and alienates other international groups and countries.
Why the U.S. Supports Israel By Stephen Zunes, May 1, 2002 Foreign Policy in Focus Updated 2010 http://www.fpif.org/articles/why_the_us_supports_israel
US aid to Israel The Palestinian Monitor 31 October 2007 http://www.palestinemonitor.org/spip/spip.php?article1 Updated 10/12/2010
Iran and Syria as Strategic Support for Palestine September 30, 2002 Israel Ministry of Foreign Affairs 2008 http://www.mfa.gov.il/mfa/mfaarchive
Snack for fifty preschoolers – what health food starts with “I?” Two-year-old well visits, pictures – should he wear a tie? Dinner menu written out, off to the grocery store. Forgot to grab the coupons and I got stuck spending more.
Keep juggling, clown, keep juggling
Naptime’s almost over and there’s still two loads to fold. Underneath the couch? Oh, God… a sippy filled with mold. Need to call the restaurant, the dentist and the bank. Root canal for four, or was that dinner for six at eight?
Keep juggling, clown, keep juggling
Music class on Tuesday, then gymnastics, can’t be late! Forget the coded calendar – how do we keep it straight? Pajamas, toothbrush, bubble bath, all tucked in by nine. Want to watch that new show, but … “Hey, Honey, got the time?”
Fadwa Rantisi The Weed My roots are planted deep in the ground, they are strong and resilient. Many people have tried to destroy me and feel that there is no place for me. They feel that the sight of me is disgraceful and are not welcoming to me. They have picked at me, cursed my name, and others have tried to cover me up. This too shall pass, when I will be able to take my rightful position in the place “I call home".
Fortunately for me, those with an open mind and heart can appreciate my beauty, and all that is offered through accepting me, the weed.
“Let me brush your hair,” I say as I watch my daughter struggle with the curls she battles every morning. She passes me the brush silently and I gently work my way through the tangles of last night’s sleep. She doesn’t know how I treasure these few opportunities to mother her, to get close to her without a roll of the eyes or a sigh of annoyance. I think of when she was young, when every day held countless moments of my being close to her, taking care of her.
“What do you want for lunch today?” I slow down my brushing, wanting this time to last before she rushes off to school and I’m alone again. It is hard to fill my days now that she needs me less. Some days I feel like I am grasping at any task, no matter how small, just to be able to do something for her, to be of some use to her, to communicate my love where words are no longer wanted.
“I was going to stop by Alamos to see if those boots you wanted are on sale. Are you sure you want black boots?” They make her look like a high-schooler. I watched with fear as she walked around the store, so little of my little girl left I wanted to cry. What am to do with this person whose language I no longer speak; my words, my presence, my love separating us further and further until I might as well not exist in her life? Where once I moved with certainty, there is doubt. Thirteen years of happiness chiseled away by stony looks and icy silence.
“Remember to give the office the note about being absent the day before Spring Break.” I know she is upset we are taking her away from her friends for the week, but it has been so long since we’ve seen her for more than a few hours at a time. I keep praying that somehow she will see me differently in a different place. That being away from her friends will bring her back to me a bit.
“I’ll pick you up this afternoon for piano.”
(silence)…
“Honey, who are you talking to,” my husband calls from downstairs?
(silence)…
“Sarah? Sarah, who are you talking to?”
(silence)…
My hands shake and I put down the brush. I put down the brush, look in the mirror, and see myself, just myself. I shake and swallow tears. Hands clenched. Heart breaking again and again.
in grade school, we learn about balance. we jump carefully through hopscotch lines, tiptoe across the beam, and make sure both of the bunny-ears are the same size. “Color inside the lines” they preach.
we share equally with brothers and sisters, conjugate verbs so they match the subjects, ensure that everything MUST line up.
but in the big, wide world, and in the worlds of the children I saw yesterday, balance is obsolete.
they are shaking with hunger. they are tired. they are not responsible. they feel unsafe and scared, alone. and no one is listening to them.
and yet, they are faced with times tables, multiple choice bubble sheets, detentions.
we scream at them, roll our eyes, give up and they cry.
we do not understand each other this reality is a painful distortion.
and so, when i think about imbalance, i think of them. and when i think of them, i wonder. how come the only place we struggle to find common denominators is in math class?
Verdant Vivacious Fertile Alive Green and flourishing The whole landscape inhales: Water and oxygen and sunlight And exhales: Sage and emerald, chartreuse and jade, Lush and varied, Animated. Leaves and needles, Lobes and veins Brown roots and trunks yield flourishes of being “Will I never know everything there is to know about green?” (last line from The Forest Lover by Susan Vreeland, on the life of Canadian painter Emily Carr)
Last year, Sean was a clown. Because he blew off the entrance exam at the alternative high school where I work, he was placed into my reading class. I had him removed when I quickly realized that reading intervention was inappropriate for him. The removal was only partially successful since Sean snuck into my class daily. The bell would ring, and within the first minutes of class, I would order him, “Sean, Out!” After he got bored with that routine, he began sneaking an assignment and working intently. It was a far better strategy-what teacher questions the presence of a student in rapt attention of the day’s work? Before he complied with my orders to go to his class, he always tried to make me laugh. Occasionally he succeeded. This year, Sean walked in under a cloud. It was a billowing, grey-blue cumulonimbus. He parked himself and his cloud in the front corner opposite the door. From that vantage point, he could see everyone in the room, but not the board. That didn’t matter to him. I constantly prodded, begged, scolded, but he either slept, got on the computer, or baited another student into an argument. Sean earned himself a detention for sleeping in class after he was warned not to. His excuse for why he couldn’t serve a detention? Parole violation. School til 3, then home. No time for detention. When the dean threatened him with expulsion unless he served a lunchtime detention, Sean conceded. He came up to my classroom during lunch and although I can’t recall whether or not he brought a tray of food, I remember vividly that he brought his cloud, thundering overhead. The anger and hostility were so intense that I ate my lunch in the staff kitchenette. Standing room only. That afternoon I had a conversation with the dean about Sean. It wasn’t working. I’m not a babysitter and shouldn’t be forced to supervise students who have no intention of working, or passing, or graduating. We spoke about Sean’s prison mentality, how he was more concerned about watching his back than building his future.
Gradually and then all of a sudden, Sean turned it around. He came up during lunch to get caught up, sans hostility. He began working in class. He started unclenching his jaw enough to say hello. I was wrong to say he didn’t belong in my classroom or my school. But I wasn’t wrong about the mentality. Sean is one of many students I have served who has physically left Cook County Prison but carried the memory of the bars into my classroom. I haven’t asked Sean what he was locked up for, and I probably won’t. That’s not the point for me, and sometimes knowing interferes with the point. Sean needs an education. He needs rehabilitation. Even though his incarceration ended sometime in August, the punishment continued. Justice needs to be more than simply punishing juveniles like Sean. The victims of Sean’s crime (if there were any) deserve the knowledge that he was separated from society as a result of his actions. Some criminals need that separation to learn from their errors too. But the victims also deserve better than that. They deserve more than a system that dehumanizes inmates and spits out ex-cons who are no more educated and no more rehabilitated than the moment they committed their crimes. Remarkably, Sean went from straight F’s on his progress report to all passing grades by the end of the quarter. I won’t say more than that because it’s Sean who needs to write that part of the narrative. I’ll just say that at this point in the plot conflict, complications, and climax are still to come. But there are too many happy coincidences in Sean’s story to make it commonplace. Kismit separates him from the common man. Sean is a remarkable kid with above average intelligence, energy, and resilience. My school is filled with people like me who are willing to ram our heads into brick walls like Sean until the facade crumbles. And despite the justice system’s failings, Sean has a decent parole officer-the kind who checks grades, not just attendance records. Instead of sending kids to the county and then back to the streets, our justice system needs to become as serious about rehabilitation as it is about punishment. Without support, education, and supervision, young people like Sean may not end up like Sean.
During the sixties in the west Boston neighborhood of Waltham, there was only one type of a haircut for a boy- the buzz cut. Our fathers would get out their electric clippers and buzz away all the hair from our heads. All us little Irish, Italian and Jewish boys sported white scalps, red necks and ears that jutted out from our heads like open car doors. We ran around the neighborhood after school in the springtime looking for anything free to entertain us. Anything that kept us out of trouble. We tried anyway. It was hard when staying at home had troubles of its own. Especially when the old man had come home from the cement factory and begun his nightly activity of sitting on the front porch working through his six pack of Ballentine Ale. Most days, he just entertained passerbys with talk of the Red Sox and his theories on how they were fairing. He only came inside to use the can and didn’t like when one us kids got in his way. At the top of his list of pet peeves were dishes in the sink. And in a house with ten kids in it, there were always dishes in the sink.
On this particular day, our Aunt Gert had come by in her car to take our mother to the grocery store for her weekly trip. Gert was so tiny, her husband had tied wooden blocks onto the pedals of her Dodge Dart so she could reach the gas and break. Even though the grocery was only three blocks away, us kids loved any opportunity to ride through the neighborhood in a car since our family didn’t own one. It was our chance to wave to our friends and gloat, pretending the car was ours even though everyone knew it wasn’t. All five of us older boys piled in for the parade, squeezing into the back of the car vying for a window seat that allowed more gloating.
When we arrived home from our adventure, we decided to enter the house through the back door as not to distract our father who we hoped was resting quietly in the front room at this point. To our surprise, we found our paper boy in the kitchen, standing at the sink, doing dishes, crying his eyes out. “Dickie, what are you doing here?” I asked in confusion. To which he replied between sobs, “I came by to collect tha money for tha pay-pa,” sniff, sniff, “when Mista Conner cracked up the back of my head and said to me ‘Get ya fuckin ass inside and do those fucking dishes!” All my brothers and I could figure was that our father being drunk and confused, mistook Dickie’s buzz cut for one of his five sons and promptly reprimanded him for leaving chores undone. We felt bad for him, but all we could do was laugh.
Soupy
ReplyDeleteBy Suzanne Kimmerly
Half a mile from my house growing up,
we spent a great deal of time together.
Everyone told me
I had him wrapped around my little finger.
He had a white comb with a few teeth missing,
always having to comb his hair
when I came to see him.
No one else had the magic touch.
Wednesday trips to Washington Plaza,
allowed one thing with the senior discount.
Pit-stops for sliders, and
two-hour adventures at the supermarket,
reading every label and comparing every price.
Summer days of counting canned goods can by can,
building apple pies slice by slice,
constructing furniture piece by piece
in which I reflect day by day.
As I grew up, he was always my biggest fan,
be it concerts, band trips, or graduations.
At my wedding, he cried the most tears,
then it was my turn at his funeral.
Memories remain, and always will,
of the man who called me “Soupy.”
Searching
ReplyDeleteBy Sarah Davy
Do you have a hobby?
A place to get away.
To clear your mind and
Take a break from the day.
This clarity I long for,
This energy I desire.
I found it on the soccer field,
The one place I felt inspired.
I hung up my cleats in college
To embark on new journeys in my life.
I found a job, lived in the city,
And went back to school- twice.
But this hobby thing is haunting me.
I feel I’ve tried it all.
Running, cooking, fishing…
I’ve officially hit a wall.
I will never forget Daniel advising me,
during those long undergrad days,
“You must find a hobby outside of your career-
for peace of mind is priceless in so many ways.”
Today I might not have a hobby,
But maybe tomorrow I will.
No pressure, no sorrow, no suffering
This void I know I can fill.
Mother’s Guilt
ReplyDeleteby Laura Freeman
All bundled up,
Dragging his saxophone,
He waits at the bus stop,
The snow begins to fall.
My enemy approaches,
Slowly, quietly.
“A good mother would drive him,” he whispers.
The bus pulls up and I push him away.
I race to my car,
A narrow escape.
I pull into the parking lot,
And make my way,
Lost in a maze of Abercrombie t-shirts and ripped jeans,
The air fills with the scent of Axe cologne.
R-R-R-Ring!
He suddenly appears.
“Sure cutting it close,” he casually remarks.
I race to my classroom, leaving him behind.
He grows smaller and smaller.
Slowly, he fades away.
Four o’clock already!
I speed to reach Extended Care.
I peek through the door and notice,
The precious few remaining there.
As I look behind me,
There he is,
Larger, stronger,
Ready to attack,
I take a long, deep breath.
Suddenly, an interruption,
“Mom, could you get a cup of coffee?
I really want to finish this game.”
Today, I beat him.
I smile to myself,
Maybe someday
The two of us,
Will learn to get along.
I am from
ReplyDeleteBy: Tiffani Kuhn
I am from a city filled with smog,
where strangers hardly ever try
and nod.
I am from a school system
to yet be praised. I’ll never lie about
how I was raised.
We’ve seen welfare, poverty and pain,
but I’ve risen from a path which is now paved.
I am from friends, beauty and life.
I am from freedom; I’ve struggled
through strife.
I am from the fruits of my mother’s
labor, what about you neighbor?
My LEAST Favorite Word
ReplyDeleteChoose another word, I say.
Why? Why do I have to?
Do you even now what that word means?
Yeah…well, no.
Then why are you using it?
Because I’m mad about the soccer game at recess.
Did you choose that word because it is hateful? Do you know it is a hateful word?
Yeah.
Did you want to offend someone? Make them mad?
Who would that word offend?
Me.
Why? You are not that word.
But it offends me and plenty of other people.
I did not mean to offend you. I was just talking about the soccer game.
Well is the soccer game that word?
No…
Choose another word.
Do you know someone who is that word?
In the sense that you know it, my little brother is. But when I describe him I use words like motivated, caring, helpful, bright, successful, driven, supportive, hilarious, curious, shy…never once would I use the word retarded.
The Ritual
ReplyDeleteThe slanting shades are sleepy eyelids
closing over late afternoon sun.
His hands, dusted with newspaper ink,
spoon shaky peaks of sugar into a yellowed mug,
two white trails from bowl to cup.
Her hands dart in; each finger tipped
with long, polished nails,
bedecked in Home Shopping baubles.
A practiced swipe carries the crystals
over the ledge of the brown Formica.
This pile of jewels in her palm--
the only diamonds he ever gave her.
The Misunderstood Sound
ReplyDeleteby Lisa Rudin
It’s why I’m here,
the motion of my stride
how my body glides in fear
and why I cry while you hide.
It’s the first miss,
the tremble of my lips
how my mind quiets the hiss
and why I breath in hurried sips.
It’s why you lead,
the dance for the lonely
how you always act in greed
and why you took me slowly.
It’s what life is,
the moments that we share
how memories never fizz
and why we stray or keep near.
It’s all around,
the misunderstood sound
cherished by so very few.
I am the poetry,
so are you.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteWhat If?
ReplyDeleteBy Lauren Hogel
Amazingly observant,
Relentlessly curious,
Innately mischievous.
Caring more about living than learning.
Trapped by the classroom rules and walls that confined you.
You fought back.
Teachers’ worst nightmare
What if you weren’t so easy to love?
Huge heart,
But emotionally insecure.
Desperate to be wanted.
Always running back to a woman who
Cared more about getting her next fix
Than the fact that you called her mom.
You fought back.
Leaving an aunt who was left helpless trying to help.
What if you just let someone love you?
Learning disabilities,
Broken promises,
Failed interventions.
“We’ve done what we can,” they said
As they showed you to the door.
Abandoned by the community you saw as family.
You fought back.
Tardy, truant, anywhere but the new school.
What if we had put up more of a fight?
Thirteen year olds
Barely before bits of sunlight slip through the horizon
Gallivanting around
In a car that’s not their own.
Ignored red lights,
Crashing metal.
Incarcerated?
No, incinerated.
Did you fight back as the flames swallowed you whole?
Some say you got what you deserved.
But they didn’t see how many people failed you along the way.
They’re blinded by the poor choices you made that night
And not how many were made by others.
Truly, who’s to blame?
Accompanied by your memory,
The haunting question that will not fade-
What if?
Snow and the Guys
ReplyDelete(A Modern Retelling of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves)
by Mindy Erickson
Blood red lips, snow white skin—
That’s her.
Her mom is dead. So is her dad.
All that leaves is the evil stepmom.
(And boy does she have one.)
All the stepmother does is look at her reflection.
Not ruling the kingdom like she should—
Only admiring herself
In a castle filled with the latest gadgets,
Collecting dust.
Snow has to clean everything
That the servants won’t go near.
She used to care, but now it’s her life,
And she knows a secret: He is coming.
That wonderful Prince Charming
Who will sweep her off her feet,
Taking her to their happily-ever-after,
Far away from her current reality.
This is all she thinks about,
As she mops, scrubs, and sweeps.
No complaints come from her mouth—
Not a peep while dusting the plasma screen TV,
Her thoughts always of him.
The first time he came, she was unaware,
Until his Mercedes drove out of the courtyard.
She blew it, and now she’s on the run.
Her stepmom wants her dead.
She’s got it in her head
That Snow is prettier and fairer than she.
So, Snow is hiding in the starless forest—
Where wolves howl; owls hoot.
Her cell phone has no bars.
Her iPod is dead.
She’s all alone.
No Prince Charming in sight.
She sees a cottage in the distance.
No lights are on; the door unlocked.
She goes inside, meaning to rest her feet.
All the furniture is small.
Except for the massive bed in the bedroom.
No technology at all--not even a TV.
No one is home.
Too tired to think; she falls asleep.
She doesn’t hear them enter.
She wakes to see seven pairs of eyes.
They are nice gentlemen.
Rather small, but gracious.
Mostly named for their behavior:
Grumpy, Sneezy, Sleepy,
Dopey, Happy, Bashful, and Doc.
All equally kind—they let her stay.
She repays their kindness by cleaning,
And buying them a TV,
And each an iPhone.
(Don’t act so shocked.
She is a princess.)
Each morning the dwarves awaken at dawn.
Fortified by the Starbuck’s she brews,
They head off on their long commute to work
Down at the mines.
(Hardly a suit and tie job.)
Sometimes singing,
Sometimes whistling,
Maybe even both.
They are rather rich,
Digging up diamonds all day.
But all that money was just doing nothing,
Until she fixed that—
All but rebuilding the house.
In their own way they were a family.
Height made no difference.
Then . . . She came.
An old woman who looked harmless enough.
Dear Snow took pity,
Not recognizing her own stepmother
Who had lost her beauty.
(Plastic surgery had been a disaster.
She blamed it all on Snow.)
Snow welcomed her to the cottage, a kind host.
All the woman had to offer in return was an apple.
The woman was eager to see Snow eat it,
As she herself had no teeth.
(All those chocolates had rotted them out.)
Snow took her only bite.
Fell to the ground.
The evil woman left,
Cackling victoriously.
The dwarves returned and called 911,
But it was too late.
They had a private funeral in the forest—
Only themselves and the animals in mourning.
Her coffin wide open,
So all could say good-bye
To both sister and friend.
How Prince Charming heard of the ceremony is unknown.
(Some say Twitter, others Facebook.)
He arrived to see he was too late to save his princess.
He thought to kiss her a last good-bye,
Thinking it the only one they would ever share,
But a miracle happened:
Snow woke from a nightmare and into her dream.
Now she lives in a brand new castle
Equipped with all the latest in castle design.
The guys come over for Sunday dinner and holidays.
News came that the stepmother’s broken body was found
At the bottom of a ravine,
Dying as all evildoers must
So those like Snow get the right ending:
A happily-ever-after.
PART ONE:
ReplyDeleteMy parents did not finish high school, not even close. They came to Chicago from Mexico in the seventies. Their whole lives they worked hard to make sure that their children would not follow in their footsteps. I was sent to one of the top ranked and most expensive all girl, Catholic high schools on the south side of Chicago. My sophomore year, the musical Ragtime had come to the Oriental Theater. My school caught the Ragtime fever. Not only did we get to see it, but also it seemed that in every class we exhaustedly studied and talked about it. The American Dream, immigration, the soundtrack, it was exciting but overwhelming. In first period, Ms. Lorent’s English class, the topic of discussion was immigration. She kept staring at me and I kept looking away. I knew, as the other girls talked about how their great great grandfathers emigrated from Ireland through Ellis Island, that Ms. Lorent also wanted my story and sentiments. It was a topic I did not want to get into. I was the only Latino in the class, in almost every one of my classes. With that ratio, I took the topic of race very seriously and personally.
I kept trying to avoid her looks and slithered further and further down my seat. I kept repeating in my head, “Please don’t call on me. Stop looking at me. I'm not talking. I'm not talking.” But when Colleen McFallan said what most of my classmate probably thought, my inner voice was abruptly halted.
“I think that it’s okay if people from other places want to come and live here to try and get the American Dream and stuff. But I don’t think that people should be here who don’t even speak English and are illegal aliens, who only talk Mexican.”
I closed my eyes and swallowed down my initial reaction to jump over the desk and forcefully shut her mouth. Quietly, I raised my hand and eyebrow, which I tend to do when I am angry.
“So, you’re saying that I don’t belong here. Or that I don’t deserve to be here in this school, this country, with you?”
“No, Blanca I’m not saying you. You’re from here and speak English. I mean, like…”, she shrugged her shoulders as her messy, dirty blonde ponytail bounced around, popped her gum to the beat of her pen flickering in her hand, scanned the room, stopped, fixed her eyes out the window and pointed with her pen, “them, the grass cutter people.”
I swallowed too hard the first time; this one just did not go down. I got up from my chair so fast I knocked it over.
“Speak Mexican? First of all, it’s Spanish. Second, I was born in Mexico and English is my second language, so do not assume you know me. Third, those grass cutter people are out there doing a job so that one day they can send their daughters to a school like this so that one ignorant girl like you can tell them they don’t belong!”
PART TWO:
ReplyDeleteI went on and on and finally stopped after I found myself sitting on an ugly leather chair, with my heart and stomach lying on the floor in the dean’s office. They were calling my mother. The dean and the instigator, Ms. Lorent told me that they were proud that I stood up for myself and that I made an intelligent argument but that there was no need to involve my “fellow Hispanic Classmates” and perhaps anger or “God forbid, provoke matters.” At the end of the day, as some of my friends (all Latinas) and I walked out of the school, we caught looks and whispers. Everyone thought that the Latina student body was about to start a war. Colleen’s mother, fearing for her daughter’s safety, had come and taken her home early. Did we retaliate? Most definitely. By my senior year, my classmates and I had successfully established a student founded and run, academically recognized Latina organization called Sisters United (Hermanas Unidas) to promote academic and cultural awareness. I understood at an early age that people like Colleen mostly do not have malicious intentions but rather are ignorant on the topic of race and immigration. That was fourteen years ago. Five years ago, I marched miles from Chicago’s near north side to downtown to promote awareness and retaliate no longer against the misconceptions of teenage girls, but of a nation.
In our country, immigration is and has been an issue for many years. Between 1850 and 1880, thousands of Mexican workers immigrated to the US to become field hands in the regions that had very recently belonged to Mexico. The largest presence of Mexican workers in American labor came with the construction of railroads. In 1924, with the implementation of the Border Patrol the term “illegal alien” was born and every undocumented worker that had slaved to help further the economy and prosperity of this country were now deemed fugitives. However, when the US World War II began, the US opened their doors again. In 1942, the US government instituted the Bracero Program. Under this program (which roughly translates to “working arms”) millions of Mexican laborers came to the US under short term contracts to fill a need for agricultural and railroad workers. More than four million Mexicans were given work permits to work the fields of this nation to develop the rich American agricultural industry and by 1947, when the US did not need them anymore; they closed their doors once again. When we look at the past, history does not even shed a tear for the immigrants who built this country on their backs. To repay them meant to exploit them. Not only were they working in slave-like conditions, but still today, half a century later, the few elderly Braceros that remain await wages the US promised but never paid.
PART THREE:
ReplyDeleteHave things changed much? It was not long ago, when former President Bush, to justify new immigration laws, stated “with the war on terrorism the American people need security from terrorists that are infecting our nation.” This was to justify mass deportation raids across America that left broken families. To justify the strict immigration policies which would criminalize anyone who gave assistance to an illegal immigrant. To justify the Minuteman Project, modern day vigilantes who “patrol our borders” at gun point, who feel that “Americans must be reminded that our nation was founded as a nation governed by the ‘rule of Law’, not by the whims of the mobs of illegal aliens who endlessly stream across the US border.”
Under former President Bush, immigration reform was supported. Reform that deports deeply rooted people many of whom are working hard to give their children a better future by providing them with a better education. Yet he assured that, “We will honor the American traditions of the melting pot and help immigrants assimilate by learning our history, our values, and the English language.” Arriving to Chicago, as a child and a native Spanish speaker, I was put into a grammar school where no one spoke anything but English and I learned the language in a short time. Learning the language is not the problem. It is speaking with an accent that makes others believe one thinks with an accent. The values I have are a result of my Mexican American heritage. Our American values come from the melting pot of ethnicities and cultures, because to America we are all immigrants, accept the Native Americans. History, American History, I agree must be learned well so that we learn from past mistakes. The issue of immigrants unfortunately creates prejudice and injustice, resulting in people telling others that they do not belong in their school, their job, and their country.
I have hopes that President Obama will hold true to his promise of change and amnesty. By chance, I met him when he was Senator at the immigrant march and had the special opportunity to briefly speak to him. I told him I was a college student who supported and admired him. He told me, “It is because of you young people that we are going to change American.” I was an undergraduate then and according to the National Center for Educational Statistics, as a Mexican American, I was part of a tiny fifteen percent population of Latino college students. With Latino youths being the fastest growing population in the USA (an estimated 11 million this year) it is unfortunate that the number of them attempting higher education is so minute. Furthermore, the few of those that are enrolled in college, are only graduating at a low rate of 11% a year. Nevertheless, I felt empowered by his words and hoped to be able to one day make even a small difference.
I become a teacher to motivate and support the youths who are discouraged about their futures especially those burdened by racial and economical barriers. Perhaps it is my small part to help promote change and create opportunity. I realized my dream because I had the opportunity of an education, which I would have been denied had my immigrant family been ripped out of this country. Unfortunately, not everyone has the opportunity to an education and it is unjust to cripple those who do. The right to live, work, and learn should be universal and not based on having the right documentation. Families come to American everyday for opportunity and to realize their dreams. All they need once they are here is to be given a fair chance.
Speechless
ReplyDeleteby Kari Gaddie Corsi
The inspiration is lacking, the words are few
Sitting and staring at the screen
What should I write – should I be witty or deep?
Sitting and staring at the screen
Everything I come up with I just do not like
Sitting and staring at the screen
If I sit longer, think harder, maybe something will come?
Sitting and staring at the screen
Or maybe I’ll just use what I’ve got, although nothing
Sitting and staring at the screen
A-E-I-O-U, and O-R-E-O, too
ReplyDeleteBy Rachel Pomykala
All I want after a long, strenuous work out is that crunch, and that dunk
Everything about this cookie embodies the best things about overindulgence
If I were to tell anyone my secret, I might have to hang my head in humiliation
On the other hand, I do not even care anymore
Unlikely that I will be found out, I linger here in the corner of the counter, above where anyone can see
One such occasion presents itself, and I must hide from the three year-old who calls me "Mommy"
Relentless, she asks, "What are you eating?"
Everything in my power is telling me to keep my mouth shut
Only it’s too late, the word "Nothing" slips out of my mouth in time for the revealing of the crumbs left behind
Alliance demonstrates US lack of integrity
ReplyDeletePART ONE-Jenny Vaughn
It is difficult to imagine a conflict lasting sixty-three years with little hope of a resolution. Since 1948, in the Middle East, the Israelis and Palestinians have been engaged in a dispute over 13,795 square miles of land on the Mediterranean. Violence and infringement of human rights are daily occurrences and thousands of lives have been lost. Throughout that time, the US has helped Israel maintain its superiority over the Palestinians by providing immense amounts of aid in various forms. From 1949 to 2006, the US has provided Israel with more than $156 billion of direct US aid. Additional military aid has been provided in other years as well: in 2006 the US provided $24 billion in 2007 the US gave $30 million, and weapons deliveries and technological support for Israel’s military has been ongoing. (Rabin, 1) The enormous amount of support that the US provides Israel is disgraceful and should be withdrawn because it puts the US in a position to violate her own laws and international law.
Currently, the US has the second largest population of Jews outside of Israel; most of which are located in Skokie, Illinois. Lobbying the government to support Israel has been a primary focus of many of the Jewish political groups. The Jews in the US support a homeland in which Jews can govern their own affairs. Although there are other contributing factors, the Holocaust was the main impetus for this movement. The horrors of the Holocaust were great and the desire to have a safe haven is understandable. However, the Israelis treatment of the Palestinians violates Palestinians human rights and it is deplorable that the US would violate its own laws and support these actions. There have been many reports documenting illegal imprisonment and torture of Palestinians that result in severe injury or death. According to a US law established in 1961, the Foreign Assistance Act, “No assistance [ought to be given] to countries that violate human rights.” In addition, the 1976 US Arms Export Control Act states that “weapons purchased from the US should only be used for self-defense.” But, since September of 2000, more than 6,430 Palestinians civilians have been killed by the Israeli military (including women and children). (Rabin, 1) These pieces of legislation have never been overturned and have been referred to in current cases as justification for lack of funding to other international groups. As a democratic nation it is vital to uphold laws. Lack of adherence to any law will lead to additional violations and those violations will be justifiable because the government of the US is also violating its laws. This is a Pandora’s Box that can quickly spiral out of control and disrupt the foundations of the democracy that has been established.
Alliance demonstrates US lack of integrity
ReplyDeletePART TWO-Jenny Vaughn
Supporters of Israel may argue that it is acceptable to continue funding because Palestinians also engage in violence against the Israelis and self defense is acceptable action. Members of the group Hamas have gained military equipment like automatic weapons and rockets from other terrorist organizations and countries that support Islam. The organization Hamas has used these weapons in the Gaza Strip and West Bank, which has resulted in 1,084 Israeli deaths since 2000. However, the magnitude of violence has been much higher coming from the Israelis and continues to increase as they try to build settlements in the Gaza Strip and West Bank. The Israelis have been building inside the armistice line that was created. They have bulldozed Palestinian homes and forced many into houses made of scrap, which have not been adequate enough to protect Palestinians. They have continued to use violence to clear the areas that they desire and Palestinians continue to lose their lives. These actions demonstrate that self defense is not a legitimate argument for the Israelis to use and further prove that human rights violations are occurring. Under the established US laws, the government should forgo aid to the Israelis unless they cease aggressive action and human rights violations.
Both the US and Israel, in accordance with the United Nations, are signatories on the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. This document was created to set clear guidelines for the equitable treatment of all human beings worldwide. The violations of this document by the Israelis and the fact that the US is a signatory, requires the government of the US to discontinue monetary and military support for that country. Article 5 of the Declaration states that “No one shall be subject to torture or to cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment.” With the Israelis use of isolation, subjecting prisoners to extremely loud music for extended periods of time, depriving them of light and food, and physically abusing them, Article 5 of the Declaration is being breached. In addition, the document states that “no state or group can perform any act that contributes to the destruction of these rights. By supplying the state of Israel with millions of dollars and a multitude of military supplies, the US is not upholding international laws set out by the United Nations. If self respect is not enough of a consideration for the government to discontinue its support of Israel, the international reputation of the country is at stake as well and should weigh heavily on the decision to cut funding from Israel.
Alliance demonstrates US lack of integrity
ReplyDeletePART THREE-Jenny Vaughn
It can be argued that the strong relationship the US and Israel has in the United Nations is a valid reason to continue support. Historically, Israel has voted with the US on almost all issues in the UN. This increases the US’ likelihood of getting legislation passed in this international organization. It is unlikely that without continued US support, Israel would sustain its voting record in regards to US policy in the United Nations. Although this is an interesting point for consideration, the continued support of Israel and breaking of international law, has alienated many other countries, especially those in the Middle East. Iran and Syria, both countries with increasing military capabilities have stated that the US will remain an enemy as long as it supports Israel. And, as long as the US continues to send weapons to Israel, these countries will continue to give military support to Hamas. It is not necessary to create alliances with countries that most Americans consider to have extreme viewpoints (many Iranians are Holocaust deniers, for example). However, it is imperative that in an increasingly hostile climate in the Middle East and the Iranians new acquisition of nuclear power, that the US consider the ramifications of their continued support of Israel.
Alliances are a crucial part of any country’s international relationship. Effective alliances can elicit positive results in international organizations and international conflicts that may arise. These factors are reasons why we have sustained a relationship with Britain, once our enemy, for a couple of hundred years. Israel has the potential to be an effective ally for the US. However, it is critical to maintaining our own democracy that we discontinue support until Israel has ceased being an aggressor against Palestine. The US risks the chance of violating laws becoming more and more prevalent as governments use this relationship to justify their own criminal acts. Condemning nations such as Cuba, whose government has similar issues regarding human rights, and then supporting Israel is behavior that puts the integrity of the US in question and alienates other international groups and countries.
Sources
ReplyDeleteWhy the U.S. Supports Israel
By Stephen Zunes, May 1, 2002
Foreign Policy in Focus
Updated 2010
http://www.fpif.org/articles/why_the_us_supports_israel
US aid to Israel
The Palestinian Monitor 31 October 2007
http://www.palestinemonitor.org/spip/spip.php?article1
Updated 10/12/2010
Iran and Syria as Strategic Support for Palestine
September 30, 2002
Israel Ministry of Foreign Affairs 2008
http://www.mfa.gov.il/mfa/mfaarchive
Universal Declaration of Human Rights
The Circus
ReplyDeleteBy Colleen Whittingham
Snack for fifty preschoolers – what health food starts with “I?”
Two-year-old well visits, pictures – should he wear a tie?
Dinner menu written out, off to the grocery store.
Forgot to grab the coupons and I got stuck spending more.
Keep juggling, clown, keep juggling
Naptime’s almost over and there’s still two loads to fold.
Underneath the couch? Oh, God… a sippy filled with mold.
Need to call the restaurant, the dentist and the bank.
Root canal for four, or was that dinner for six at eight?
Keep juggling, clown, keep juggling
Music class on Tuesday, then gymnastics, can’t be late!
Forget the coded calendar – how do we keep it straight?
Pajamas, toothbrush, bubble bath, all tucked in by nine.
Want to watch that new show, but … “Hey, Honey, got the time?”
Keep juggling, clown, keep juggling
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteFadwa Rantisi
ReplyDeleteThe Weed
My roots are planted deep in the ground, they are strong and resilient. Many people have tried to destroy me and feel that there is no place for me. They feel that the sight of me is disgraceful and are not welcoming to me. They have picked at me, cursed my name, and others have tried to cover me up. This too shall pass, when I will be able to take my rightful position in the place “I call home".
Fortunately for me, those with an open mind and heart can appreciate my beauty, and all that is offered through accepting me, the weed.
“Always a Mother”
ReplyDeleteBy Nicole Jackson
“Let me brush your hair,” I say as I watch my daughter struggle with the curls she battles every morning. She passes me the brush silently and I gently work my way through the tangles of last night’s sleep. She doesn’t know how I treasure these few opportunities to mother her, to get close to her without a roll of the eyes or a sigh of annoyance. I think of when she was young, when every day held countless moments of my being close to her, taking care of her.
“What do you want for lunch today?” I slow down my brushing, wanting this time to last before she rushes off to school and I’m alone again. It is hard to fill my days now that she needs me less. Some days I feel like I am grasping at any task, no matter how small, just to be able to do something for her, to be of some use to her, to communicate my love where words are no longer wanted.
“I was going to stop by Alamos to see if those boots you wanted are on sale. Are you sure you want black boots?” They make her look like a high-schooler. I watched with fear as she walked around the store, so little of my little girl left I wanted to cry. What am to do with this person whose language I no longer speak; my words, my presence, my love separating us further and further until I might as well not exist in her life? Where once I moved with certainty, there is doubt. Thirteen years of happiness chiseled away by stony looks and icy silence.
“Remember to give the office the note about being absent the day before Spring Break.” I know she is upset we are taking her away from her friends for the week, but it has been so long since we’ve seen her for more than a few hours at a time. I keep praying that somehow she will see me differently in a different place. That being away from her friends will bring her back to me a bit.
“I’ll pick you up this afternoon for piano.”
(silence)…
“Honey, who are you talking to,” my husband calls from downstairs?
(silence)…
“Sarah? Sarah, who are you talking to?”
(silence)…
My hands shake and I put down the brush. I put down the brush, look in the mirror, and see myself, just myself. I shake and swallow tears. Hands clenched. Heart breaking again and again.
balance - by laura m.
ReplyDeletein grade school,
we learn about balance.
we jump carefully
through hopscotch lines,
tiptoe across the beam,
and make sure both of the bunny-ears are the same size.
“Color inside the lines”
they preach.
we share equally with brothers and sisters,
conjugate verbs so they match the subjects,
ensure that
everything MUST line up.
but in the big, wide world,
and in the worlds of the children I saw yesterday,
balance is obsolete.
they are shaking with hunger.
they are tired.
they are not responsible.
they feel unsafe and scared, alone.
and no one is listening to them.
and yet, they are faced with times tables,
multiple choice bubble sheets,
detentions.
we scream at them,
roll our eyes,
give up
and they cry.
we do not understand each other
this reality is a painful distortion.
and so, when i think about imbalance, i think of them.
and when i think of them, i wonder.
how come the only place we struggle to find common denominators
is in math class?
Verdant
ReplyDeleteVivacious
Fertile
Alive
Green and flourishing
The whole landscape inhales:
Water and oxygen and sunlight
And exhales:
Sage and emerald, chartreuse and jade,
Lush and varied,
Animated.
Leaves and needles,
Lobes and veins
Brown roots and trunks yield flourishes of being
“Will I never know everything there is to know about green?”
(last line from The Forest Lover by Susan Vreeland, on the life of Canadian painter Emily Carr)
Punished
ReplyDeleteby Betsy Serilla
Last year, Sean was a clown. Because he blew off the entrance exam at the alternative high school where I work, he was placed into my reading class. I had him removed when I quickly realized that reading intervention was inappropriate for him. The removal was only partially successful since Sean snuck into my class daily. The bell would ring, and within the first minutes of class, I would order him, “Sean, Out!” After he got bored with that routine, he began sneaking an assignment and working intently. It was a far better strategy-what teacher questions the presence of a student in rapt attention of the day’s work? Before he complied with my orders to go to his class, he always tried to make me laugh. Occasionally he succeeded.
This year, Sean walked in under a cloud. It was a billowing, grey-blue cumulonimbus. He parked himself and his cloud in the front corner opposite the door. From that vantage point, he could see everyone in the room, but not the board. That didn’t matter to him. I constantly prodded, begged, scolded, but he either slept, got on the computer, or baited another student into an argument.
Sean earned himself a detention for sleeping in class after he was warned not to. His excuse for why he couldn’t serve a detention? Parole violation. School til 3, then home. No time for detention. When the dean threatened him with expulsion unless he served a lunchtime detention, Sean conceded. He came up to my classroom during lunch and although I can’t recall whether or not he brought a tray of food, I remember vividly that he brought his cloud, thundering overhead. The anger and hostility were so intense that I ate my lunch in the staff kitchenette. Standing room only. That afternoon I had a conversation with the dean about Sean. It wasn’t working. I’m not a babysitter and shouldn’t be forced to supervise students who have no intention of working, or passing, or graduating. We spoke about Sean’s prison mentality, how he was more concerned about watching his back than building his future.
Punished, continued
ReplyDeleteby Betsy Serilla
Gradually and then all of a sudden, Sean turned it around. He came up during lunch to get caught up, sans hostility. He began working in class. He started unclenching his jaw enough to say hello. I was wrong to say he didn’t belong in my classroom or my school. But I wasn’t wrong about the mentality.
Sean is one of many students I have served who has physically left Cook County Prison but carried the memory of the bars into my classroom. I haven’t asked Sean what he was locked up for, and I probably won’t. That’s not the point for me, and sometimes knowing interferes with the point. Sean needs an education. He needs rehabilitation. Even though his incarceration ended sometime in August, the punishment continued.
Justice needs to be more than simply punishing juveniles like Sean. The victims of Sean’s crime (if there were any) deserve the knowledge that he was separated from society as a result of his actions. Some criminals need that separation to learn from their errors too. But the victims also deserve better than that. They deserve more than a system that dehumanizes inmates and spits out ex-cons who are no more educated and no more rehabilitated than the moment they committed their crimes.
Remarkably, Sean went from straight F’s on his progress report to all passing grades by the end of the quarter. I won’t say more than that because it’s Sean who needs to write that part of the narrative. I’ll just say that at this point in the plot conflict, complications, and climax are still to come. But there are too many happy coincidences in Sean’s story to make it commonplace. Kismit separates him from the common man. Sean is a remarkable kid with above average intelligence, energy, and resilience. My school is filled with people like me who are willing to ram our heads into brick walls like Sean until the facade crumbles. And despite the justice system’s failings, Sean has a decent parole officer-the kind who checks grades, not just attendance records.
Instead of sending kids to the county and then back to the streets, our justice system needs to become as serious about rehabilitation as it is about punishment. Without support, education, and supervision, young people like Sean may not end up like Sean.
The Buzz Cut
ReplyDeleteBy Cathleen Tierney
During the sixties in the west Boston neighborhood of Waltham, there was only one type of a haircut for a boy- the buzz cut. Our fathers would get out their electric clippers and buzz away all the hair from our heads. All us little Irish, Italian and Jewish boys sported white scalps, red necks and ears that jutted out from our heads like open car doors. We ran around the neighborhood after school in the springtime looking for anything free to entertain us. Anything that kept us out of trouble. We tried anyway. It was hard when staying at home had troubles of its own. Especially when the old man had come home from the cement factory and begun his nightly activity of sitting on the front porch working through his six pack of Ballentine Ale. Most days, he just entertained passerbys with talk of the Red Sox and his theories on how they were fairing. He only came inside to use the can and didn’t like when one us kids got in his way. At the top of his list of pet peeves were dishes in the sink. And in a house with ten kids in it, there were always dishes in the sink.
On this particular day, our Aunt Gert had come by in her car to take our mother to the grocery store for her weekly trip. Gert was so tiny, her husband had tied wooden blocks onto the pedals of her Dodge Dart so she could reach the gas and break. Even though the grocery was only three blocks away, us kids loved any opportunity to ride through the neighborhood in a car since our family didn’t own one. It was our chance to wave to our friends and gloat, pretending the car was ours even though everyone knew it wasn’t. All five of us older boys piled in for the parade, squeezing into the back of the car vying for a window seat that allowed more gloating.
When we arrived home from our adventure, we decided to enter the house through the back door as not to distract our father who we hoped was resting quietly in the front room at this point. To our surprise, we found our paper boy in the kitchen, standing at the sink, doing dishes, crying his eyes out. “Dickie, what are you doing here?” I asked in confusion. To which he replied between sobs, “I came by to collect tha money for tha pay-pa,” sniff, sniff, “when Mista Conner cracked up the back of my head and said to me ‘Get ya fuckin ass inside and do those fucking dishes!” All my brothers and I could figure was that our father being drunk and confused, mistook Dickie’s buzz cut for one of his five sons and promptly reprimanded him for leaving chores undone. We felt bad for him, but all we could do was laugh.