This is a race poem

Yesterday nine black people got murdered by a white kid in South Carolina and I still had to teach summer school today.

Poetry can't fix racism, but all I know how to do is write poems.

So call this is a race poem.

I don't usually get to write race poems because I teach at Lone Peak High School and it's like a bucket of vanilla ice cream at that school. I mean, there's a lot of white. Don't get me wrong. I love vanilla ice cream. But sometimes I like caramel, I'm just saying.

I grew up around caramel. And sprinkles and chocolate, see I grew up in Trailersville and we were Warriors. My mom and my sister were worriers, but me and my friends were Warriors.

Stephen Phung was Vietnamese and Mike Malave was Puerto Rican. Carl Sokia was Fijian and Trey Brown was, well, Black. Tevita Vakalahi was Tongan and Mark Miller...he was White. And so was I and I'm just saying I miss all that color, so when I walked into summer school at Mountain View

I was happy.

I felt like I was home again.

Mi nombre es Kyle Nelson y soy muy Gringo pero soy muy hermoso. Y tambien lo son todos ustedes. Lo siento, Lo siento, Lo siento.

Nobody wants to be here. Even the kids sitting on the leather couches would rather be somewhere else and I don't blame them. I'd rather be somewhere else too.

Even if you've enjoyed my class, enjoyed the videos, the emotion, the poetry, the honesty. Let's be real. It's the middle of June and it's 95 degrees outside. You're not here because you love to learn. You're here so you can get the hell out of here.

And I dig that about you.

So pardon my French, but screw Summer School. You're too good for this place. Let's call this summer semester your last because next summer you'll be too busy working on your body to work on your grammar. You'll be too busy running lemonade stands to run to class. And too busy eating pineapple to worry about spelling it.

Let's learn to love and love to learn, because education will always be our only way out. 

This fall you won't fall. This winter you'll be the winner and this spring you'll be king because that means it's almost summer and we already talked about what you'll be doing next summer.

Last year was the last year you'll finish last. This year is his year. And his year. And her year. And your year. You're gonna remember your pencil and your homework and your mother. You're gonna remember everything she said to you before you walked out and when you return you'll have a medal around your neck because this race ain't over yet. It's just getting started.

So whether you're Puerto Rican or Mexican or Cuban or Dominican or from freaking Lindon, I don't care. Let's call this fall chapter two. Which means chapter one is almost over, and I never liked the beginnings of books anyway.

So finish strong and keep your head up when you run. When you get tired just remember this race poem and know that one bald white teacher believes in you, wherever you are.

A Summer School Love Poem

Class begins at 12:15, but we don't start till 12:20 at the earliest. This is how we do it in the summer.

We keep the blinds closed whether there's rain or sunshine, and we don't tell anyone the real reason we're here.

We use the bathroom
more often than we use our inside voices.

We forget our pencils, but we don't ever forget to bring our tacos and bean and cheese burritos -
it smells like Taco Bell in here all the time,
welcome to summer school.

We're assigned to share poems, but we don't go up.
We get second chances, then we don't show up.
We don't understand that we don't get second chances to grow up.
So hold up
That's why we yell YOLO in the hallways and ride skateboards to class.
This is summer school.

It's 90 degrees out there, but 60 degrees in here.
We are freezing.
And what's cooler than being cool? (Ice cold.)
I can't hear you.
I said what's cooler than being cool? (Ice cold.)
Alright alright alright alright alright alright alright alright alright alright alright alright now ladies.

We're in here learning
while our friends are outside burning.

We don't have to be here.

We could've given up a long time ago, but we still here.

Those speed bumps in the parking lot aren't the only things in our way.
Our lives are under construction, under construction. In the middle of summer.
We apologize for the delay.

But thank you for your patience.

Traffic will be moving along smoothly again real soon.