The 49th Street Galleria

When I was a kid, we went to the 49th Street Galleria like every day. It was 1989 and the world was only as big and as far as my mom could drive us. She dropped us off at 3 and picked us up at 10. (Sometimes I would call her from just outside the roller skating rink and convince her to wait until 11.) It was what they called the good old days.

I pegged my pant legs, sometimes I let my sister dress me, we listened to R&B music but never thought about what it said, and we made it rain with tokens.

We drank Orange Juliuses until our chests hurt, we had pockets full of tokens and appointment books full of nothing, there were girls everywhere, and they even turned the lights off while we roller skated.

I still have callouses from the batting cages, I still wear glasses from standing too close to the arcade games, my voice still hurts from karaoke, and all I want to do these days is dance. My stomach hasn't felt like that since forever.


Last week the building came crashing down. I just spent 12 minutes trying to come up with a metaphor, but sometimes real life is more poetic than poetry.

I've been sad all week and I couldn't figure out why until I wrote this post.

a random thank you letter

Mr. Nelson and Roah,

I'm sorry. There are kids who are standing on the precipice of the end of their story and men being raped thinking they have to keep it hidden because things like that can't happen to real men and hearts breaking without making a sound because no one can hear bleeding and all around the world there are people losing limbs and dying from osteosarcoma. And here I am. Typing this so futilely.

But I had to get the words out soon or they'd never escape. I'm afraid this feeling will run away from me and I won't be able to get it back because no one ever knew it was true. So here's to both of you. Maybe I'm just being an attention whore.

These words are a gin and tonic mix to Mr. Nelson with the bittersweet, moving, scary, heartbreaking, heart-mending, full, genuine words and Roah, with the beautiful eyes and voice and the Apollo inside, but most of all his wonderful lightning enigmatic eccentricity:

I want so badly to a part of it all. Last Friday, I went to Speak for Yourself. I think you were supposed to be there Mr. Nelson; there was a poem about you from Charles Darnell. Leaving early was the hardest part. Everything else was beautiful and it's been too long. The night pulled tightly on my heartstrings while my heart made ugly music and harsh sounds because it just didn't know how to handle the discovery. People are so passionate and torn and brave to go up there and show others their words with voices vulnerable and powerful. I felt like the poets were giving me a peek inside of their soul that I shouldn't have been looking at. But I couldn't bring myself to look away. I've been spending hours between the SFYS blog and Paranoid Breakable and anonymous blogs and my dusty journal and Microsoft word. It's been wonderful; though I've been neglecting my homework terribly. I mean staying up until 2 AM terribly, which I guess isn't too bad because during a rough patch of a few months, I'd stay up until 4 some days, putting every little thing off because I took on too much; thinking I could do it when everyone said I couldn't. And I can't.

I want to go up to Tim and Taylor and Kyle and Soley and Shane and anonymous bloggers and both of you so I can say thank you. Because I've found something I feel infinitely alternating shades about. I found it in every last one of you. And it's been there for years, I was just too blind to see it, especially when I walked past SFYS posters last year, wanting to go live in poetry but never going, somehow never having the goddamn time. Especially when I skimmed over passages and articles without thinking twice about them. Especially when I had the interest to click on poetry videos but ended up not having the patience to finish them. I was so skittery.

I'm guilty of being selfish in wallowing self-pity and for not listening. I'm guilty of a lot of things. Before I graduate, before I die, maybe I'll have the guts to talk to you and say meaningful coherent sentences. Because man, that's a rarity for me. But a coward will say things and never do them and I'm not an interesting one. I've thrown away my chance at passing any AP tests and getting a flimsy paper that says I got straight A's in high school. I let good grades define me and I didn't know what I could be without them, but I've rediscovered something that matters to me. I hope I never lose it. It's reading and writing and listening yet it's not reading and writing and listening because those are just three words. All of it is better than ever before because in the drought I'd forgotten to even think about water. But now I'm in the ocean and water engulfs me. And I hope everyone finds their crashing waves of blue.

I wish I'd taken creative writing Mr. Nelson. I know you're saving a lot of kids from drowning by just knowing they are. And Roah, I wish I could ask you questions, but I'm just counting my stars to having really opened my eyes to words when I did. It's comforting and scary that I haven't even scratched the surface yet. I wish I knew more about visiting Paris and #stolen and letters and Anis and slam poetry. I really wish I had a blog and your prompts Nelson, but it would be so selfish because I'd just want my words to be read by someone and hope that maybe they liked what I wrote. I want to be one of the OTHER WRITERS. Maybe I just need to know half a person is listening. It was definitely selfish that when I got home from SFYS I took my pencil and wrote and thought and wrote and thought, liking the sound of my noise, instead of simply taking in what I'd just experienced. If you've read all the way down this stream of words, I couldn't tell you how much that means and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for taking time away from you, but I guess not enough that it kept me from hitting the send button. I'm sorry for the amount of "buts" and "becauses" and "ands" in this awfully long message that's vague and doesn't make sense. I'm sorry that I made you kind of know a part of me when I'm not worth knowing. People are always saying time must be managed and that it's a valuable thing and heals all wounds and other shitty clichés. I am truly sorry for wasting yours though.

Thank you from here to there and everywhere,

just a girl who loves CD's and has never kissed a boy and listened to "The Dreamer" and "Kitchen Sink"and "Welcome Home, Son" over and over and over while spilling this motley splotchy ink on you.

I'm sorry for making a mess.

a letter to a former student

Truly yours. Your biggest fan. This is Stan.

Great to hear from you. I saw your parents a couple weeks ago. I see your sister on B days. I hope everything's going well on your mission. Speaking of cliches: nobody's perfect. Just do your best, man.

It's my 6th year teaching. (I had you my first year. That's crazy. It doesn't seem that long ago. But it does.) So much has changed. But, I'm still the same guy. I'm still trying to be myself as much as possible. I'm still trying to get my students to love to write (and read, sort of). I still like the students. I enjoy being around young people. They're enthusiastic. They're alive. They're full of angst. They're trying to figure out everything. I love that about them.

So how have I changed? Well, I've gained like 10 pounds. I'm going bald. I'm getting some gray hairs. I'm smarter. Yeah, I'm smarter. I think I understand more about teaching. I'm embarrassed by some of the lessons I've tried (although I will say that I busted out the lesson about Regina Spektor's "Samson", because I remember you once said it was a good one. I taught it this year for the first time since my first year). I think I'm more compassionate. I understand students have other things on their mind. I understand that students have a lot of crap they deal with outside of school. But I still struggle not to take things personally.

(These are deep, heavy questions by the way. I like them.)

How have the kids changed? The easy answer would be PHONES. But that's not really true. I'm tired of people blaming everything on the internet. I mean, everyone has a freaking iPhone, I mean everyone. And Twitter is taking over the world (maybe not, maybe just my world). It's actually not that bad. I like it. I use it. I do see how it affects them socially, though. I'm worried about my own kids and iPads and video games and ADHD and everything. My oldest son (Cy, he's 9) wants to play on his iPad and all I see is a socially broken 16 year-old who doesn't know how to talk to anyone or look anyone in the eye. (Wait, I just described myself at 16, and at 34 for that matter. Maybe we're all a little broken.)

This is a difficult question to answer. I try to look at students as individuals instead of groups of people or types or students in general. So it's difficult to quantify, if that makes sense.

So let's go to the final question: what impresses me about students.

I love seeing a young person trying to be himself/herself. Not worried about fitting in, just worried about finding himself/herself. Some of my favorite students are NOT popular. They don't have a lot of friends (because high school kids can be very particular about who their friends are). I like the students who aren't afraid to be alone and aren't depressed about it. Or maybe they just have one or two close friends and that's it. They don't need to be in a group of 15 to be happy. I'd rather have two close friends that 16 superficial acquaintances (even though I'm pretty sure that's how many of my friends I had in tuxedos at my wedding, I don't think I even remember all their names).

I enjoy seeing a young person be real. Again, this is related to the first thing. They're not worried about fitting in or saying the right thing. They're just interested in being real. They're honest. They don't know everything. They're not afraid to laugh at themselves. They're kind. They're especially kind to people below them (on the social ladder, even though there aren't very many). They don't look at friends as investments or social capital. They're just looking for kindred spirits. And they have passion. I love being around people that are passionate about something. Like art or writing or music or something. But not sports. I mean, I'm passionate about sports too...but that's not something that impresses me about someone.

I don't even know what I'm saying anymore.

Seriously, I'm glad to hear from you. Not much as changed here. I'm still teaching and still loving it and still writing and still wanting to write more and still watching the Oscars and still wishing I was writing my Oscar acceptance speech and still wondering if I'm going to write anything this summer and still trying to be a better husband and father and teacher and human being and still failing at everything but still trying and I forgot to eat lunch today.

Anyway.

Preach on.

Ideas

Some ideas for poems that never materialized.

poems about cats

Her name was Midnight and she was the first girl I ever loved. 

Blacker than Las Vegas, she slept on my chest and drooled all over my heart. (I don't want to be metaphorical or poetic right now. I want to tell the truth.) She was a cat. She pooped in a box and covered it with sand. It's not about poetry.

She coughed up hairballs on the carpet and licked herself all over. Her tongue felt like the moon and I know this because she licked my face like it was a hobby.

Her name was Midnight and she was the first girl I ever loved. 

I couldn't tell if she felt the same way about me. Sometimes I'd see her rub up against the leg of the chair and she looked happy. But she never bit me no matter how many times I forgot to feed her. Sometimes, late at night, she would lie next to me, her head resting on my arm, like we were cuddling, like we were in love, like our lungs were learning to share.

Her name was Midnight

She got diarrhea when we drove too long in the car.

and she was the first girl I ever loved. 

I'm not superstitious, but I needed her to fall asleep. Part nightlight, part bedtime story, part sleeping pill. (I don't want to be poetic. I needed her in order to fall asleep.) She had nine lives but nobody knew how many she had left.

Her name was 

(whistles and kisses and whistles)

She got hit by a car, but I didn't want to believe it. I was on the porch like,

(whistles and kisses and whistles)

She was a cat. She pooped in a box and covered it with sand. (I'm not being poetic. I'm just telling the truth.) The truth is that the cat's name wasn't Midnight. It was kitty. (My sister and I couldn't decide on a name, so we just called her kitty.) I was on the porch like "Here kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty. Here kitty, kitty." It was like we didn't even know each other.

Her name was Midnight 

I didn't come here to talk about cats. The last cat I owned crapped on my bed, so I gave it to the pound. I'm not a sentimental guy. She's just another dead cat on the side of the road. The truth is that Midnight wasn't really a girl. She was a boy. I was just ashamed to admit that I was sitting on my porch for an hour waiting for a boy to come home, because I loved him more than anything.

Explanation

I'm sorry.

I made an executive decision tonight.

I separated the OTHER WRITERS (people who aren't in the class) from the WRITERS (people who are in the class).

It wasn't a rash decision. It's something I've been thinking about for a while. Here are some of the reasons why:

• The OTHER WRITERS list went from 5 to 12 to 26. 
• I was having trouble keeping everyone straight (who's in the class? who's not?).
• I was neglecting my current students.
• Some of the OTHER WRITERS were just too good. 
• I put two OTHER WRITERS in the hall of fame (one by accident).
• Now the list of WRITERS is 75. 
• It's only fair. 

Anyway. I'm sorry. The OTHER WRITERS are still on the WritersParis home page, they're just separated. It's probably not the same, but I'm sorry.

Especially after reading this brilliant post by Sky Trillion.

Your hair was long when we first met

"Then Samson went to Gaza, and saw there an harlot, and went in unto her." (Judges 16:1)

I told the class to take out their bibles and turn to the Old Testament. They looked at me like I was crazy. This wasn't Sunday School. It was English. And it was Wednesday. We were supposed to be learning about allusions.

We talked about the story of Samson and Delilah. She cut off his hair (allegedly), and he lost all his power. We listened to Regina Spektor's song, Samson.



I asked a bunch of questions I don't know the answers to. Like who's this song about? Where do we go when we die? Does God remember me? (I didn't ask them all out loud.) We talked about love and sex and power (then someone asked to use the bathroom), and we talked about God and strength and betrayal and man, it's such a pretty song.

I looked out the window and saw Jared (aka The Fighter, aka @22JaredL, aka Tiger, aka one of my former football players). Last month, Jared was diagnosed With T-Cell Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. Fresh off chemotherapy and radiation, he just came by to say hello.

I asked him how he was feeling, what he's been up to, how the mask he was wearing felt, if he remembered me, if he was in pain, if he still believed in God, how long he thinks he's going to live, if he ever asks why (I didn't ask them all out loud.)

Gabi, Sarah, and Lexi stopped by during lunch. I haven't seen Lexi in months. Her hair was shorter and hipper and she looked happy. She showed me a picture of when she cut it all off. I asked her why she did it, if it hurt her or anyone else, if she lost her power, if she still believes in God, if she's happy, if she's cried today, if she's nervous about coming back to school, if she's all better, if she ever asks why (I didn't ask them all out loud.)

"And Samson called unto the Lord, and said, O Lord God, remember me, I pray thee, and strengthen me"

It was supposed to just be another day at the office. But sometimes Wednesdays are more than just Wednesdays. Sometimes teachers have more questions than they ever say out loud. And sometimes we're all just waiting for our hair to grow back.

I know Spring doesn't officially begin for a few more weeks, but here's to hoping.