Tell My Story...

This weekend I have had the pleasure of working with young writers at the Prairie Winds Retreat. It is an amazing opportunity, and it is a terrific way to begin spring break. One of the greatest aspects of the camp is that I get to actually complete some of the writing activities with the kids. Yesterday, one of the tasks was for each kid to find something at the camp that they found interesting, silly, impressive, you know, basically awesome. They were to take a picture, and later we returned to the scenes and wrote the story that scene had to tell. 

Below is my offering. I had fun with it. Some of the young writers created some truly impressive tales. 

So, here you have it:

"Tell My Story..."

My rings should tell my story, swirling the years of growth and drought, etching my tale for the world to read. That is not happening. The surface where the saw bit through decades is now charred, and my voice is choked, even as young feet shuffle past what is left of me toward something better, something new, with concrete and steel. I want to scream out that I was not always this stump, this lifeless remnant of what had once been strong and tall.

I want to once again whisper with the breeze, to tell the story of those two laughing lovers who sat beneath my branches. He had leaned against me as he sat, and she had leaned into him, letting the sunlight that tumbled through my leaves dance on freckled cheeks as she closed those bluest of eyes and allowed his arms to wrap around her. Later, as the rays of the sun dipped below my branches, he took a small blade and pressed the tip through my rough bark, carving four letters set in pairs and joined within the border for a heart. I did not mind the discomfort that the scar left, no more than he regretted the indelible mark she would carve into his heart itself, where he hoped to hold her forever. The scar on me fell when I did; I wonder now if those four initials one day became three, or if those two youths would one day become one more.

But I cannot let that story drift do to those who walk past me. That gently carved heart has been replaced with only the blackened char of regret and death.

What treasures I would shower if I could only once more drop the leaves of the tales from years passed. Someone should hold a leaf to the sky and trace the veins that reveal the story of that young girl, pig-tailed and pinkless, who clamored up my lower branches to the highest limbs that would hold her, climbing a ladder seemingly built just for her. I must admit that more than once I leaned my arms toward her, allowing an outstretched hand to pull her up higher, leaving those boys far below. Boys who threw rocks, pine cones, and cruel names, but who would later chase her as high as she would let them.  In my fallen state, I cannot see beyond the horizon of age, and I wonder if she is still climbing, forever fearless, no limbo out of reach, or did she one day fall to earth?

In my leveled state, I cannot see. But, the truth is, I know now I never truly fell. Not when the weevil bored deep within my core, ring by ring, and left me creaking in the Kansas wind. Not when then dropped me from my height, sending me crashing to the grass. Not even when they reduced me with blades and wedges and let flames devour me. No, I still live on. As long as new initials trace the roots to those carved initials or young climbers give life to tiny crawlers, I continue to spread my branches.

Hey you! Yes you, Skinny. I have been ignoring you since they dropped you into the earth and your roots began intertwining with mine. I see they have staked you upright. That is good. We all need a little guidance, especially when we are young and easily bent by the winds that blow. Grow straight and grow strong. And listen: if one day, small, filthy  hands yank you down, trying to pull some laughing creature up or if some smooth, strong hand presses a steel point into your rough flesh, do not sway away. The scars will be worth it.

Thanks, Lacy Pitts @pacylitts

I was called out last night. It must have bothered me because I awoke at 2:30 this morning in a cold sweat, tossing and turning in a fit of guilt and anxiety that would not let me rest. I tried to coax sleep back to my bed, willing my eyes to remain closed while behind those fitful eyelids danced images of failure and frustration. Tortured and tormented, I lifted myself from my useless cocoon of slumber and resigned myself to a long day, thanks entirely to a cruel jab on social media that shined a light on my failure as a writer, a teacher, and, in essence, a man.

Thanks Lacy Pitts.

Maybe I exaggerate, just a bit. It was awake a 2:30 am. I did toss and turn before giving up and getting up just after 3:30. I was not thrown into turmoil by a tweet by young Miss Pitts. I am not really sure what woke me and kept me from falling back into sleep, but I suspect the second enchilada may have had a part in the process. Perhaps another bill making its way through the dual houses in Topeka started my mind turning. Shoot; the Governor may have introduced another education bill for discussion about the time I gave up on sleep. To paraphrase Hamlet, now, in the darkness of night, is the best time to do dirt, to undertake deeds that would force one to blush in the light of day. Of course, that idea assumes that said individuals are actually capable of feeling embarrassment and shame. Evidence would indicate some of our "leaders" have lost such ability.

So no, I should not blame Lacy Pitts and her tweet calling me out for not blogging enough for my inability to settle gently into the peace of sleep. However, I will thank her for nudging me to work toward clicking "Publish" once again.

So, instead of filling my mind, and yours, with more images of sleazy politicians masquerading as social and economic scientists gathered in a back room filled with cigar smoke and the stench of failed "experiments", passing money from pocket to pocket and chuckling about the ignorant fools who actually put them in the position to achieve, well, whatever it is they think they are achieving for the state of Kansas, I will compose incredibly long and rambling sentences that even Vicki Jewel would find challenging to diagram, sentences that turn our thoughts toward more cheerful ideas and more energizing ambitions.

Ironically, I turn to my classroom for such inspiration. My honors sophomores are studying poetry, you see. Currently, they are attempting to create audio-visual products which bring to life extended metaphors that they fashioned to create images of school. The assignment is inspired by Emily Dickinson's "'Hope' Is a Thing with Feathers", Pink Floyd's "Another Brick in the Wall", and Shane Koyczon's "To This Day".

This project can be a minefield at times, but it can aso allow some students to blossom. "Writer what you know" is how the old saying goes, right? We did discuss cliques this year, and I was hoping to avoid the yearly nugget "School is a prison." I pointed out that that metaphor may have outlived its usefulness and has lost its value due to overuse as an expression of young hyperbolic angst. "Elsinore is a prison" muttered the inky-cloaked Hamlet, and ages later he was echoes by Will Farrel's "This house is a prison!" in Stepbrothers. If that sentiment is in fact what this year's crop of creative minds wants to convey, they should strive to develop a new image that strikes the mind's eye of the reader.

I am excited by what I read. Not every student has a positive  view of school, and the images created by their metaphors are clouded in gloom or cracked by violence. While I am not happy to see those images tied to my mission, the creativity and emotion is sometimes truly impressive. Many are positive, and some shift in mood and tone as the mental pictures unfold on the page. The young poets  have created images for school and its various aspects that range from carrot cake to zoos, from racetracks to shoes, from beehives to mountains as they ahve crafted their extended metaphors (I have avoided calling these poems in class; I have found that simply calling them extended metaphors results in a much lower level of frustration for young men and women who i am trying to nudge away from groaning when they hear the word poetry).

I have witnessed young people labor for dozens of minutes trying to discover just the right word to fit in one line, only to change it again the next day when they reopen the document. Students become poets as they shift from using tired adjectives to vibrant participles. One event that no one outside my classroom may notice truly made me appreciate the opportunity I have each day. One student had created a rather lengthy metaphor comparing school to a zoo. The assignment required 8 lines, and she had placed at least twice that on the class document that held the entire class's offerings. However, she had actually composed perhaps 16 additional lines that she had not pasted with her other work. She was not sure if it was good enough, and she asked me to read it. In it she compared herself, as a student, to a wolverine, caged and observed, but eternally ferocious, fighting to overcome and break free, following an inner drive to go beyond the zoo's walls. It was not flawless, as no piece of writing ever is, but it was vivid. When I told her that her metaphor needed the lines she had written, that it completed the image and the idea, her face lit up, and she smiled, squirming in her seat.

That reaction made my day. That is why I teach young people. Those moments are present each and every day, and we sometimes have to remind ourselves to enjoy them. The smile when a kid finds just the right word, the tear that runs down a cheek when a stanza or paragraph touches something inside a 16-year-old, the furrowed brow when a bright student pushes a little harder to reach a higher expectation, the look of hopeful satisfaction on the face of the student who went beyond the basic requirements for an assignment for the first time this year. Those moments lead to higher assessment scores, and they allow a student to meet standards, believe it or not. More importantly, they lead to learning and growth. They open up minds and hearts, and they let kids find their ways. It does not happen with every kid on every activity, but we strive to make it happen as often as possible. It is not always immediately quantifiable, but it is without a doubt qualifiable.

So, it am going to go to work now. It is what we do. I will image upon image about school. Some will make me laugh, some will make me grind my teeth, and some will warm heart.  And one more thing is certain: they will make me want to go back tomorrow.

Oh, and thank you Lacy for calling me out. Sometimes it has to be done.