Here’s what I’ve been thinking about lately — a lot.

I’m thinking about babies and how they “turn out”. I’m thinking that 1) no parent ever wishes poverty or failure for a child when it is born, and 2) I’m thinking that no child (unless s/he is seriously psychologically impaired) grows up wishing to be unsuccessful or evil.

I’m thinking of the parents I’ve met who have thrown up their hands and turned over the reins to teachers and school administrators. “I can’t do anything with him”, they say. “Call the police if you have to. I’m done.” “She won’t listen to me. You talk to her”, they say.

In the past few days, I’ve witnessed bus stop fist fights, heard about a vicious beating of one student at the hands of another, and learned that the quiet, artistic kid who I thought had it together was arrested for a ‘snatch and grab’ crime. I’ve refereed an argument filled with hateful racial slurs, been cursed out by a pretty 13 year old, and watched the drug-fueled ravings of a bi-polar student. There was also a rash of student-from-teacher thefts this week. None of the kids involved has the benefit of strong parental presence; some parents are deceased, some are imprisoned, some are drug addicted, and some are working 3 jobs and are too exhausted to interact with their children.

Then there are parents like the mother of the Boston bombers, who are so entrenched in the murk of denial that they refuse to believe their child could possibly have done anything hurtful or wicked. For several days I’ve been feeling really sad for that woman, trying to imagine what it must be like to live in her skin these past few weeks. And now, this morning, I read that there are strong suspicions that she probably knew what her boys were up to all along.

The father, too, was reported as saying that he didn’t care if his younger son lived or died. How did the kid feel when he heard from authorities what his father had said? They told him, of course. After his atrocious acts, no one is concerned with sparing his feelings.

My words should not be interpreted as an endorsement of anything those young men did. They carried out a bewilderingly awful plan, and did it so matter-of-factly that it’s chilling to watch.

I’m just considering the human experience; how our emotions bubble up unbidden; the things we do to justify and explain and hide our actions and the actions of those we love.

I’m still not done thinking about all these things, but they’ve distracted me from the poem writing.

Instead, an excerpt from another Naomi Shihab Nye poem, “Interview, Saudi Arabia”, which considers the perspective of the parents of the 9/11 terrorists.

“The fathers do not know
what the sons have done.
They are waiting for the sons to call home,
to say it was a mistake,
it was not me.
Somewhere on another street
their boys in short white pants
are walking proudly
in a world they love.
Oranges peeled by hand,
frying onions,
marbles in dust.
Whatever might happen
is shiny, strong.”

 

Here’s an interesting academic article on Naomi Shihab Nye’s writings with more excerpts from her work.

For the Record:

• Also Pondering: patriotism, the influence of social media, the price tag of the manhunt in Boston, Martin Richard, prom night, how much I miss my friend B, vacation plans, seeing family this summer, whether I’ll ever learn to conjugate all those Portuguese verbs, teaching character to kids, the environment, sustainable food practices, the blood and gore of MMA fighting
• Reading: Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver
• Weather: Gloriously beautiful
• “Official” Work Days Until Summer Vacation: 29
• Number of Those I’ll Spend in the Classroom with Students: 24

Today’s challenge is to begin and end a poem with the same word.

To All the Boys She Loved Before

Invisible filaments
coiled dormant in pillows
of grey matter spring
to life

and she is on the beach again
and he’s whispering
I love you into her mouth;
his tongue
flicking an “L”
onto the underbelly
of her upper lip
as she inhales the “you”,
and tries to swallow herself,
to see how she tastes in his mouth

and she’s standing in a room
on the seventh floor of a ritzy hotel
talking him down from the window sill
where he sways dizzily
and cries over and over
and over again,
No, no, no …
You’re not here.
You’re not real.
Where are you?
as his face twists itself
into unrecognizable
topography
desperate for her love

and he’s moving with her
as the stereo plays
and they’re measuring time
in heartbeats
instead of minutes
because it’s the only way they know
how to coexist
when they are together

and now she thinks
that all love did
was make her feel
invisible.