I love Mint. Love it. That is the mint that is mint.com. Mint has got to be the slickest, coolest thing to ever happen to your checking account. Mint is full of pretty green graphics, compelling charts, and numbers that add themselves, and I love it love it love it. … continue reading this entry.
pulling off the band-aid
I haven’t blogged in over a year. I got my feelings hurt – and got a little gun shy. I have since rubbed a little dirt in it, and put on my big girl pants. The other thing is – I harbor bizarre guilt about not finishing my kid’s birth story, and I worry how am I supposed to talk about the newbie without finishing up the big guy’s. I can hear him in a voice that sounds much like mine, except it’s deeper, much richer, twenty years from now saying, “you’ve always liked him better, even from the beginning, you never finished my birth story.” And at that moment, I will silently apologize to my mother for any like sounding accusations I threw her way about my baby brother. … continue reading this entry.
Like, You Know
So this guy did a reading just over the river from me last week. I had told my kids about it, and had all intentions of joining them. But then, pregnancy and the reality of working mom-hood kicked in, and instead of hanging with the hipsters on a Tuesday night, I was home in bed. But a handful of my students made it. One, a runner up in last year’s Smith Poetry contest, was really impressed with him, and emailed him, including a poem along with her thoughts. And – he, he who hangs with Mos Def and appears regularly on HBO – wrote her back. And – he absolutely made her day. And when she forwarded the response on to me, I can’t tell you how much it made my day. There are a hundred reasons why being a teacher is the hardest thing in the world, but a thousand reasons why it’s the most rewarding, amazing job I could want. This kid’s enthusiasm for writing is reason 314. Thank you Mr. Mali for reminding me about reason 314.
I am my brother’s keeper.
Just remembering this hot August evening four years ago. A night where, like I often do when watching basketball or convention speeches, I pulled my chair very close to the tv, curled up and tucked my toes under my tshirt, and watched. Closely. And …then I stood up and clapped. And just like tonight, Russ is the only one to watch the clapping and the tears, and the hope in my heart get just a little bit bigger.
Almost There
Well, I missed my own deadline. This is nothing new in my life. I am constantly setting deadlines, and always breaking them or missing them. I don’t know if I just move slow like molasses in January, or if I set unrealistic deadlines for myself. … continue reading this entry.
paradigm shift.
part two of kai’s birth story
~*~
When Amy returned, she told us they had made space for us in the ultrasound room, and we could hop on down the hall. At this point, though, nothing I did to travel from one place to another looked like hopping. I guess you could call it waddling. As the ultrasound tech swathed my belly in that crazy gel, I prayed. This is not something I’m very good at. That is, talking to the creator. But at this moment I squished my eyes closed and hoped that they would see you head down, the whole while knowing for certain that you were head up, or breech, if you want to be technical. And sure enough there you were, on the screen, head up. A sweet little head tucked under my heart. … continue reading this entry.
Nothing like leaving things till the last minute.
Kai will be a year in a little less than a month.
Nuts huh?
I have promised for nearly every of those eleven months to write down his birth story. And except for a sparse paragraph here and there, I just haven’t gotten it out.
This week I made a commitment to have it finished by his first birthday. And there is no time like the present to begin. This will probably be an epic, so I’m going to post in parts over the next few weeks.
~*~*~*~*~
I have never been surprised by anything in my entire life. That is, until you were born. Your father would probably like to think that when he proposed, I had no idea what was going on. But I had inkling, I mean, and I’m assuming you know your father well enough by now to understand my thinking on this, he booked a hotel room and made dinner reservations. How could I not know something was up?
Your birth story really starts 2 weeks and 6 days before you were due to be born, January the 19th. That day after I finished teaching, I went with your father to my 36 week appointment with the Midwives. Towards the end of the appointment, one of my Midwives, Amy was doing my exam and said “hmmph”
– I responded in kind, “hmmph, what?”
“Well,” she said, “I think I feel a hand, but we need to make sure it’s not a foot.” Amy told us to wait right there, and she would check down the hall if they could get us an ultrasound, “just to double check.” For the first time in my whole pregnancy, I was nervous.
That might sound funny coming from your worry wart of a mother, but it’s true. I spent my first eight months of being pregnant with you, very much free of fret and worry. It had been a lovely change. Your father, who is always strong when I need him to be, patted my knee and said, “no worries, don’t cry, like Amy said, it could be a hand.”
See the thing is sweet boy, I had planned this very, intervention-free birth for you. I had these soft, fuzzy images in my head of a miraculous birth with lights low, and music playing, and you being handed right to me, and me just falling all in love with you from the very beginning. And at that very moment, several weeks before you were supposed to be born, it seemed I wasn’t going to get what I wanted.
And the thing is, I always get what I want sweet child. You’ve learned by now that your mama is a control freak, right? Well you should know that my belief that I could truly control the universe had been shored up the day your father and I married. I had prayed for a beautiful sunny day for our outdoor wedding. The Monday before it looked as if the universe had other plans, it was rainy, it was wet, it was miserably cold, and the caterer had emailed, speaking of heaters and sides for our tent. But I stood strong, it would be sunny. I would make sure it would be sunny. And for good measure, just to make sure, I hung your great-great grandmother’s rosary beads outside, just in case. And wouldn’t you know, Saturday came with bright skies, warm breezes and a temperature that was perfect for your mama to walk down the grass covered aisle with Blackbird playing, and the sun on her face. And ever since that day, I had been fairly sure I was tapped in with the Universe’s plans. . .
baby can you hear the train
my seniors were just eleven.
and scared.
one said to me today, “ms. bernier, i thought they meant something happened at the hamp airport.” (A tiny little hanger, not so much an airport). Then she giggled, “isn’t that silly?”
so silly it almost made me cry. because when you’re eleven, your world still gets to be that small.
in the gym, the band played, because it rained, and we couldn’t be out in the sun. first time it’s rained on this day in so long.
rain – shakin’ out the dust.
so we’re in the gym in the early morn, and the drums are loud in my ears. some words that sound gentler today… talkin’ about remembering – talkin’ about human kindness, come out of the mouth of one of my favorite favorites.
and then Taps.
and for the third year in a row, i stare way up, hoping the tears will stay put.
because i think about my granpas, and how once they were someone’s son far away from home.
and i think about the mamas all over this very small globe, who mourn for their children lost too soon.
and i cry.
in front of three hundred and seven people.
and i’m not ashamed.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
self evident, by ani difranco
yes,
us people are just poems
we’re 90% metaphor
with a leanness of meaning
approaching hyper-distillation
and once upon a time
we were moonshine
rushing down the throat of a giraffe
yes, rushing down the long hallway
despite what the p.a. announcement says
yes, rushing down the long stairs
with the whiskey of eternity
fermented and distilled
to eighteen minutes
burning down our throats
down the hall
down the stairs
in a building so tall
that it will always be there
yes, it’s part of a pair
there on the bow of noah’s ark
the most prestigious couple
just kickin back parked
against a perfectly blue sky
on a morning beatific
in its indian summer breeze
on the day that america
fell to its knees
after strutting around for a century
without saying thank you
or please
and the shock was subsonic
and the smoke was deafening
between the setup and the punch line
cuz we were all on time for work that day
we all boarded that plane for to fly
and then while the fires were raging
we all climbed up on the windowsill
and then we all held hands
and jumped into the sky
and every borough looked up when it heard the first blast
and then every dumb action movie was summarily surpassed
and the exodus uptown by foot and motorcar
looked more like war than anything i’ve seen so far
so far
so far
so fierce and ingenious
a poetic specter so far gone
that every jackass newscaster was struck dumb and stumbling
over ‘oh my god’ and ‘this is unbelievable’ and on and on
and i’ll tell you what, while we’re at it
you can keep the pentagon
keep the propaganda
keep each and every tv
that’s been trying to convince me
to participate
in some prep school punk’s plan to perpetuate retribution
perpetuate retribution
even as the blue toxic smoke of our lesson in retribution
is still hanging in the air
and there’s ash on our shoes
and there’s ash in our hair
and there’s a fine silt on every mantle
from hell’s kitchen to brooklyn
and the streets are full of stories
sudden twists and near misses
and soon every open bar is crammed to the rafters
with tales of narrowly averted disasters
and the whiskey is flowin
like never before
as all over the country
folks just shake their heads
and pour
so here’s a toast to all the folks who live in palestine
afghanistan
iraq
el salvador
here’s a toast to the folks living on the pine ridge reservation
under the stone cold gaze of mt. rushmore
here’s a toast to all those nurses and doctors
who daily provide women with a choice
who stand down a threat the size of oklahoma city
just to listen to a young woman’s voice
here’s a toast to all the folks on death row right now
awaiting the executioner’s guillotine
who are shackled there with dread and can only escape into their heads
to find peace in the form of a dream
cuz take away our playstations
and we are a third world nation
under the thumb of some blue blood royal son
who stole the oval office and that phony election
i mean
it don’t take a weatherman
to look around and see the weather
jeb said he’d deliver florida, folks
and boy did he ever
and we hold these truths to be self evident:
1 george w. bush is not president
2 america is not a true democracy
3 the media is not fooling me
cuz i am a poem heeding hyper-distillation
i’ve got no room for a lie so verbose
i’m looking out over my whole human family
and i’m raising my glass in a toast
here’s to our last drink of fossil fuels
let us vow to get off of this sauce
shoo away the swarms of commuter planes
and find that train ticket we lost
cuz once upon a time the line followed the river
and peeked into all the backyards
and the laundry was waving
the graffiti was teasing us
from brick walls and bridges
we were rolling over ridges
through valleys
under stars
i dream of touring like duke ellington
in my own railroad car
i dream of waiting on the tall blonde wooden benches
in a grand station aglow with grace
and then standing out on the platform
and feeling the air on my face
give back the night its distant whistle
give the darkness back its soul
give the big oil companies the finger finally
and relearn how to rock-n-roll
yes, the lessons are all around us and a change is waiting there
so it’s time to pick through the rubble, clean the streets
and clear the air
get our government to pull its big dick out of the sand
of someone else’s desert
put it back in its pants
and quit the hypocritical chants of
freedom forever
cuz when one lone phone rang
in two thousand and one
at ten after nine
on nine one one
which is the number we all called
when that lone phone rang right off the wall
right off our desk and down the long hall
down the long stairs
in a building so tall
that the whole world turned
just to watch it fall
and while we’re at it
remember the first time around?
the bomb?
the ryder truck?
the parking garage?
the princess that didn’t even feel the pea?
remember joking around in our apartment on avenue D?
can you imagine how many paper coffee cups would have to change their design
following a fantastical reversal of the new york skyline?!
it was a joke, of course
it was a joke
at the time
and that was just a few years ago
so let the record show
that the FBI was all over that case
that the plot was obvious and in everybody’s face
and scoping that scene
religiously
the CIA
or is it KGB?
committing countless crimes against humanity
with this kind of eventuality
as its excuse
for abuse after expensive abuse
and it didn’t have a clue
look, another window to see through
way up here
on the 104th floor
look
another key
another door
10% literal
90% metaphor
3000 some poems disguised as people
on an almost too perfect day
should be more than pawns
in some asshole’s passion play
so now it’s your job
and it’s my job
to make it that way
to make sure they didn’t die in vain
sshhhhhh….
baby listen
hear the train?
Christmas
today is like christmas.
what a wonderful day. i tell baby, the world is a little less scarry today!
though, what is it with states opposing gay marriage?
We’ve been doing it here two and a half years, and guess what folks, the sky, it has not fallen down.
Lately, I’ve been writing with my kids (that is my students, you would be surprised to know I have 90 kids wouldn’t you?)
I’ve been writing with them a lot. It is easier to get them to do something if we do it together.
I wrote this in response to a vingette from Sandra Cisneros’ House on Mango Street, and I thought I would share.
Eyes.
My father has clear blue eyes- a perfect mix of his parents – Gram’s are a lighter, milkier, mother of pearl blue, like jewelry in old fashioned movies – and Grampa’s are steelier, harsher, hard, like he’s still in a ship in the pacific, during wwii
My eyes are dark — chestnut brown and almond shaped. They are the eyes of my mother, and her mother before her, and her father before her, and his mother before him. I am the fifth or maybe more generation of these eyes. I know since I have seen the pictures of my great-great-grandma Isabelle, who must have stood strong with these eyes, with her infant son in her hand, a widow so young, her husband gone form a hunting accident, while they auctioned off her farm—five generations of eyes see much.
I wonder what the next generation of eyes will bring– will my baby have blue eyes or dark, or maybe like my love, sweet green-grey eyes that catch golden flecks, like leaves in late September – though, I only wish for my baby, eyes that will see clearly the whole world around.
