Remember when school was good?
Of course, you do. Perhaps it was a favorite teacher that inspired you to great heights. Maybe it was a coach or even a parent that made a difference in your life.
For many of us, those people who made us roll up our sleeves get tremendous kudos as heroes.
I loved the diaramas and stuff that made you get your hands dirty with education. Mostly what we did in school was work in workbooks, though. Yet, those times when you could research all you want--in books--and take away some knowledge that seemed rare, but worth sharing. Esoterica.
I remember making a diarama of the North Pole. Matthew Henson making his way across the frozen tundra of my mother's boot box. I had to find a whole bunch of cotton balls to make the clumpy snow just right. Then, of course, there was the igloo made out of real sugar cubes. None of those fake packets that you get from the diner, but real sugar that Mr. Ed would eat. Finally, the little green army men from some other campaign made their way in as our explorers. Ahhhhh!
Learning should really be about play. It should be about exploring and imagining other worlds that are outside of our own world. We are so very happy when we can get outside of ourselves and into our own mind. When was the last time that you allowed your mind to wander in creative play? Huh?
One of the serious problems with today's children is that their learning has been pre-packaged for them already. They have no imaginations (or peripheral vision) because all of the work they do makes them stare straight ahead into one long line to adulthood. A parent at my school gave me that image this past weekend as we watched our sons playing soccer on opposing teams. They were going up and down the soccer pitch in a game that neither of them looked like they were enjoying very much--ahead and behind in one long programmed whirl.
Even as I type this particular blog, I am reminded how my own vision and creativity has been circumvented by the linear looking ahead and behind. What about being blown sideways by an idea that completely takes you by surprise? What about hearing a poem or a piece of music that allows the mind to expand into a Coltranian reverie, "Dear Lord!"
I love the imagination and imagining. Yet, why is it so hard for us and our children to understand and to see what's just on the opposite ends of their reach, maybe even a bit beyond.
It's been nearly a week since I blogged last and my mind wants to remember what invention is like, what creation is about. God reminds us all, every day.
Namaste,
Brian
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Friday, March 23, 2007
Connecting the Dots
The last few blogs may seem like whiplash (to the reader) in trying to tell the story of an educational journey, yet the tie between creating a philosophy of education without some biographical content is foolish. It's all about process rather than coming out of the head of Zeus fully formed like Athena.
Being raised within and being weened on the milk of a fairly traditional educational system means that there's a lot of baggage that comes with the territory of being educated while deeply scrutinizing the current educational system. Like anyone else, I am a product of the schools that I went to. I can say with some pride that I went to Headstart (1968), Lincoln Elelmentary School (1st - 3rd Grades--1968-1971), and Berneice Childs Elementary (4th Grade--1972) all in Robbins, Illinois. I also attended Carl Sandburg Elementary and Junior High School (5th - 8th Grade--1972-1976) and Thorton Township High School (1976-1980) both in Harvey, Illinois. Yale College in New Haven, Connecticut (1980-1984) and Portland State University (2001-2003) for graduate school in Education. Those places and experiences formed who I am in some sense, but not totally. At this point in my life I have spent more time outside of formal educational settings as a student, but like the experienced teacher the other day said, "The students I have taught," the loves that I have known, and the children and their families I have been in contact with have given me just as much, if not more in forming the kind of learner and educator I am today.
I miss teaching these days. I miss teaching every day with a kind of dull ache that I don't often get outside of what I encountered when I was acting or at least being an actor who was working on his craft. There is a kind of withdrawal that happens, which is where I am now.
As a principal (or Head of School), I get to be the lead educator at my school, which means that I teach teachers, but I also get to be the chief learner. The best Heads of School, which I do not consider myself to be one at this point, are constantly learning. They are open to new ideas and new ventures and adventures. They know their limitations. Believe me, these past few weeks have shown me my own limits in creating organization and process. I am always open to new ideas, but I need to live those experiences (and ideas) so they are authentic. Creating a real and genuine self should be the nature of educaion. Sadly, it is not.
That gets me to my original point: What's the connection between memoir and trying to reinvent education as it is today? Perhaps it starts with the self and works outward. Do I have enough time in this lifetime to do that? Probably not, so I have to do what I can or say like the Existentialists, "Why bother, brother?" We'll come to some of these questions over time.
Again, that's one of the purposes of this blog. It comes down to forgetting and using all of the things that I have been taught to believe, partnering with Spirit and Intentionality, and Creating a process by which these elements can come together.
Being raised within and being weened on the milk of a fairly traditional educational system means that there's a lot of baggage that comes with the territory of being educated while deeply scrutinizing the current educational system. Like anyone else, I am a product of the schools that I went to. I can say with some pride that I went to Headstart (1968), Lincoln Elelmentary School (1st - 3rd Grades--1968-1971), and Berneice Childs Elementary (4th Grade--1972) all in Robbins, Illinois. I also attended Carl Sandburg Elementary and Junior High School (5th - 8th Grade--1972-1976) and Thorton Township High School (1976-1980) both in Harvey, Illinois. Yale College in New Haven, Connecticut (1980-1984) and Portland State University (2001-2003) for graduate school in Education. Those places and experiences formed who I am in some sense, but not totally. At this point in my life I have spent more time outside of formal educational settings as a student, but like the experienced teacher the other day said, "The students I have taught," the loves that I have known, and the children and their families I have been in contact with have given me just as much, if not more in forming the kind of learner and educator I am today.
I miss teaching these days. I miss teaching every day with a kind of dull ache that I don't often get outside of what I encountered when I was acting or at least being an actor who was working on his craft. There is a kind of withdrawal that happens, which is where I am now.
As a principal (or Head of School), I get to be the lead educator at my school, which means that I teach teachers, but I also get to be the chief learner. The best Heads of School, which I do not consider myself to be one at this point, are constantly learning. They are open to new ideas and new ventures and adventures. They know their limitations. Believe me, these past few weeks have shown me my own limits in creating organization and process. I am always open to new ideas, but I need to live those experiences (and ideas) so they are authentic. Creating a real and genuine self should be the nature of educaion. Sadly, it is not.
That gets me to my original point: What's the connection between memoir and trying to reinvent education as it is today? Perhaps it starts with the self and works outward. Do I have enough time in this lifetime to do that? Probably not, so I have to do what I can or say like the Existentialists, "Why bother, brother?" We'll come to some of these questions over time.
Again, that's one of the purposes of this blog. It comes down to forgetting and using all of the things that I have been taught to believe, partnering with Spirit and Intentionality, and Creating a process by which these elements can come together.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Open Source Learning Communities: Evolving Practice
Partnerships in an academic community usually means a quid pro quo relationship. Yet, is that what's best for all involved? Is that what's best for teachers? Is that what's best for students? Should there be an outcome or exchange for services in the schoolhouse?
At a Progressive Educator's conference in San Jose, California, one of the conference leaders said that Democracy is 'not about what you get, but it's about what you give up.'
Education is the same way. For teacher and student, certain things have to be given for it to be a true exchange, which is not necessarily even.
A teacher came to see me today to discuss his upcoming obeservation, which I am to do within the next two weeks. He said that one student taught him how to be a much better teacher because the student knew how to advocate for herself--even at nine years old.
The student said to the teacher, "When you give me instructions, I don't quite understand because you speak in a kind of shorthand or a kind of code that I can't crack. Can you give instructions that is more step-by-step so that I can be in on the learning, too."
The teacher said that although the student has not been in the teacher's classroom for more than four years now, she had left an indelible impression on the teacher, which taught him how to deal with children who have learning differences. Is this a true exchange? Can the student point to what she was given, too? Probably. Yet, the teacher remembered the teachable moment that he was given by this student who changed his teaching--for the better.
What about teacher to teacher exchanges? Open Source Teaching.
Teachers can share their "codes" with others with the intent to perfect their craft. In future blogs we'll talk about these exchanges. Again, they may not be quid pro quo ("this for that") Some people would call these exchanges "best practices." That's a bit of a misnomer because it means that the "practice" doesn't or shouldn't evolve. That practice is in s suspended state of stasis. Yet, the dialectic of teaching means that practice is constantly evolving and constantly changing. There are so many variables that make this so.
At a Progressive Educator's conference in San Jose, California, one of the conference leaders said that Democracy is 'not about what you get, but it's about what you give up.'
Education is the same way. For teacher and student, certain things have to be given for it to be a true exchange, which is not necessarily even.
A teacher came to see me today to discuss his upcoming obeservation, which I am to do within the next two weeks. He said that one student taught him how to be a much better teacher because the student knew how to advocate for herself--even at nine years old.
The student said to the teacher, "When you give me instructions, I don't quite understand because you speak in a kind of shorthand or a kind of code that I can't crack. Can you give instructions that is more step-by-step so that I can be in on the learning, too."
The teacher said that although the student has not been in the teacher's classroom for more than four years now, she had left an indelible impression on the teacher, which taught him how to deal with children who have learning differences. Is this a true exchange? Can the student point to what she was given, too? Probably. Yet, the teacher remembered the teachable moment that he was given by this student who changed his teaching--for the better.
What about teacher to teacher exchanges? Open Source Teaching.
Teachers can share their "codes" with others with the intent to perfect their craft. In future blogs we'll talk about these exchanges. Again, they may not be quid pro quo ("this for that") Some people would call these exchanges "best practices." That's a bit of a misnomer because it means that the "practice" doesn't or shouldn't evolve. That practice is in s suspended state of stasis. Yet, the dialectic of teaching means that practice is constantly evolving and constantly changing. There are so many variables that make this so.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Open Source Learning Communities
LA days are so far away from today, nearly a generation as the crow flies. As a beginning teacher back in 1990, I needed to learn how to learn. By the time I left full time college in 1984, I believed strongly that I was done for good with school--no looking back. Yet, I found myself trapped in the whirl of the school I graduated from, working in a pyschiatric hospital to dull the pain of feeling like a failure. How many people thought that when they left college? How many people saw that school had let them down or worse, they had let school down. Yet, I loved school, or parts of it: the reading, the discussing, the camraderie.
The spiral of history means that learning happens over and over again. Some folks call it karma, but it's more like loop the loops in a rickety World War I bi-plane or circling the globe for months on end, over and over and over again on the space shuttle--sometimes the terrain is the same but often times it is different.
I've been speaking to my colleagues about this concept of open source learning communities. It's not necessarily up to us to create it, we believe. We are all a part of creating something new. That's where you, the reader, comes in.
Open Source Learning Communities, like open source computer code, means that you get to share ideas and change what works to suit your needs. Learning is it's own dialectic. Sometimes the swoop and concept of history even changes. For those of us who believe in Democracy, particularly the Democracy that is the Internet at this moment in history, our lives reflect bringing a sense of community to the public K-12 education space, with real people, who have real challenges. There is also an ideal, too. It's a priori and relative.
The Open Source Learning Community is not about exploiting people or making money or creating skilled workers for a better tomorrow. Rather, open source learning is about giving what we create away so that other people get to take advantage of what has been created. They in turn give away what they have created, and so on, and so on. The world then becomes a more transparent place with an ethos that counters the notion that people are broken and not fixable. At this point I'm not pointing to socities that have it down and can give us what we need if we study them well. I'm also not positing that the notion of Capitalism is bad. Listen carefully, we have solutions to fix the world's problems and we will need all of the tools at our disposal to heal them, even some of those things that created the so-called problem.
In future installments, we'll cover what works in education and what needs more time to be developed. Part of the mission is to weave in the loop of history that is memoir, storytelling, and parables to illucidate what can be.
Story tells truth always, in all ways.
The spiral of history means that learning happens over and over again. Some folks call it karma, but it's more like loop the loops in a rickety World War I bi-plane or circling the globe for months on end, over and over and over again on the space shuttle--sometimes the terrain is the same but often times it is different.
I've been speaking to my colleagues about this concept of open source learning communities. It's not necessarily up to us to create it, we believe. We are all a part of creating something new. That's where you, the reader, comes in.
Open Source Learning Communities, like open source computer code, means that you get to share ideas and change what works to suit your needs. Learning is it's own dialectic. Sometimes the swoop and concept of history even changes. For those of us who believe in Democracy, particularly the Democracy that is the Internet at this moment in history, our lives reflect bringing a sense of community to the public K-12 education space, with real people, who have real challenges. There is also an ideal, too. It's a priori and relative.
The Open Source Learning Community is not about exploiting people or making money or creating skilled workers for a better tomorrow. Rather, open source learning is about giving what we create away so that other people get to take advantage of what has been created. They in turn give away what they have created, and so on, and so on. The world then becomes a more transparent place with an ethos that counters the notion that people are broken and not fixable. At this point I'm not pointing to socities that have it down and can give us what we need if we study them well. I'm also not positing that the notion of Capitalism is bad. Listen carefully, we have solutions to fix the world's problems and we will need all of the tools at our disposal to heal them, even some of those things that created the so-called problem.
In future installments, we'll cover what works in education and what needs more time to be developed. Part of the mission is to weave in the loop of history that is memoir, storytelling, and parables to illucidate what can be.
Story tells truth always, in all ways.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Visions: Love You Save
I had a vision that day out in the desert. What I visioned was myself very different than what I had dreamed of up to that point. No longer was I an actor. That was an image that I had as a child--to be famous like Michael Jackson and the Jackson Five.
I certainly wasn't much of a teacher either. I couldn't even drink enough water. So much for leading by example.
The vision I had while being transported back to base camp and getting care was not tied to solitary and solipsitic enedeavors. I couldn't get away from people--even in the desert.
Those days were over, forever, although I did not know it at the time. The green light well beyond my reach, out on Daisy's dock.
"Hey, Bri, you could've died. Didja know that? Gotta drink some water, dude. Lot's of the agua."
"Yeah, I'm stupid, I guess."
Jules who I hardly knew was the guru of the desert adventure escapes--for kids and adults. A hired teacher with his crew who would take anybody out for the right price.
"Say, dude, let me tell you about this time we were wa-a-a-ay out in Death Valley. We were near the Borax mine. You know, Twenty Mule Team and all that shit." Unhooking the IV, Jules pulls the long needle out of my left arm. "I'm not sure where the hell I was because I was wonky too. Very little water and operating on like no sleep. We had just finished tooling through Nevada on this bike day trip where it was snowing and back down below sea level near Furnace Creek where it was hot as hell."
I'm watching him dispose of the needle that was in my arm into a sharps box while pulling out the gauzy tape. He gently wraps my arm. "So, we get down to where the pool is. Bri-man, have you ever been to Death Valley?"
"Naw, I-I-I..."
"Sorry, man, just sit back and rest up. That IV had like double Gatorade. That shit you're drinking is like a nastier version. Anyway..." Jules spits the end of the Steripad package into the garbage in a perfect arc, "We roll right past the pool and I guess I wasn't, you know, looking."
His hand comes down hard on the side of the Coleman temporary table, shaking it and his canteen right off. "Blam. Right into a the back of a truck. I hit that freakin' truck like meteor wiping out dinosaurs. Nobody sees, nobody comes to my aid. I'm lying in this oasis parking lot hearing kids play in a pool in the middle of the desert. Freaky stuff, man."
He's just talking and not even looking to see if I give a damn or not.
"Must have been like 107 degrees, after it was 37 earlier. My body didn't know, you know, what to do."
I blink. Don't want to talk at this point because a guy name Jules who I didn't know all that well was playing beat my story. Pity Poker.
"I get run-over by this Bug. Thank god it was only a Bug or I would have been dead." Jules touches my arm like I'm his date.
"Why the hell are you telling me this." I pull my arm back, quickly. "I'm...just... could you just do your damned job and stop the chatter."
Jules doesn't know about the stuff floating through my head. He's adding to my confusion. Book. The coyotes. What the hell was I going to do now. My head's still hurting like it's about to come out of my skull.
"Sorry, man. I just..."
"No need, dude." He wraps up the rest of his materials in silence and leaves the medic tent. Our infirmary. Tent flapping into the open air, cholla and sage all around.
The vision was about leaving everything that I knew behind. One of those moments where things begin to solidify. But why was my head so heavy? Why couldn't I think straight? I stopped being one thing and became something else.
Jules ducks back in. "I saw you on that show. That's all I really wanted to say. You were good."
"Thanks."
I had no past--memory wiped clean. It looked like my future was forming and reforming in front of my eyes.
I certainly wasn't much of a teacher either. I couldn't even drink enough water. So much for leading by example.
The vision I had while being transported back to base camp and getting care was not tied to solitary and solipsitic enedeavors. I couldn't get away from people--even in the desert.
Those days were over, forever, although I did not know it at the time. The green light well beyond my reach, out on Daisy's dock.
"Hey, Bri, you could've died. Didja know that? Gotta drink some water, dude. Lot's of the agua."
"Yeah, I'm stupid, I guess."
Jules who I hardly knew was the guru of the desert adventure escapes--for kids and adults. A hired teacher with his crew who would take anybody out for the right price.
"Say, dude, let me tell you about this time we were wa-a-a-ay out in Death Valley. We were near the Borax mine. You know, Twenty Mule Team and all that shit." Unhooking the IV, Jules pulls the long needle out of my left arm. "I'm not sure where the hell I was because I was wonky too. Very little water and operating on like no sleep. We had just finished tooling through Nevada on this bike day trip where it was snowing and back down below sea level near Furnace Creek where it was hot as hell."
I'm watching him dispose of the needle that was in my arm into a sharps box while pulling out the gauzy tape. He gently wraps my arm. "So, we get down to where the pool is. Bri-man, have you ever been to Death Valley?"
"Naw, I-I-I..."
"Sorry, man, just sit back and rest up. That IV had like double Gatorade. That shit you're drinking is like a nastier version. Anyway..." Jules spits the end of the Steripad package into the garbage in a perfect arc, "We roll right past the pool and I guess I wasn't, you know, looking."
His hand comes down hard on the side of the Coleman temporary table, shaking it and his canteen right off. "Blam. Right into a the back of a truck. I hit that freakin' truck like meteor wiping out dinosaurs. Nobody sees, nobody comes to my aid. I'm lying in this oasis parking lot hearing kids play in a pool in the middle of the desert. Freaky stuff, man."
He's just talking and not even looking to see if I give a damn or not.
"Must have been like 107 degrees, after it was 37 earlier. My body didn't know, you know, what to do."
I blink. Don't want to talk at this point because a guy name Jules who I didn't know all that well was playing beat my story. Pity Poker.
"I get run-over by this Bug. Thank god it was only a Bug or I would have been dead." Jules touches my arm like I'm his date.
"Why the hell are you telling me this." I pull my arm back, quickly. "I'm...just... could you just do your damned job and stop the chatter."
Jules doesn't know about the stuff floating through my head. He's adding to my confusion. Book. The coyotes. What the hell was I going to do now. My head's still hurting like it's about to come out of my skull.
"Sorry, man. I just..."
"No need, dude." He wraps up the rest of his materials in silence and leaves the medic tent. Our infirmary. Tent flapping into the open air, cholla and sage all around.
The vision was about leaving everything that I knew behind. One of those moments where things begin to solidify. But why was my head so heavy? Why couldn't I think straight? I stopped being one thing and became something else.
Jules ducks back in. "I saw you on that show. That's all I really wanted to say. You were good."
"Thanks."
I had no past--memory wiped clean. It looked like my future was forming and reforming in front of my eyes.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Thoreau's Heartbreak
Out in the desert I see my step-father's face in everything: cacti, the devil's forehead climbing rock, the 15-passenger van that we have rented, on the shell of a passing tortoise.
In reality, I haven't seen him in over 10 years. The day I left home and entered college was the last time I saw him. He just showed up at my dorm on Old Campus in New Haven. Booker T. Washington. Of course, not THE Booker T. Washington. Book, as my brother and I referred to him, had changed his name from Booker T. Wolfolk.
He drank a lot. That's all I could say and what I remember most: his hard drinking side.
Out in the desert, I didn't remember much about him. Vision was waning.
"Hey, Bri, have you had any water lately? You don't look so good?"
"Book?"
"Why don't we get you back to base camp so you can take it easy?" The girls were far in front of us. We were acting as sweepers for the stragglers who couldn't make the entire trip up the rocks.
Moriah's question wasn't really a question. She was ordering me back along the trail to link back with the other adults who couldn't make the trip.
"No, I'm...I'm...cool." In actually, I was very hot and my head hurt something terrible. Pounding like a ball peen hammer between my eyes. I was swigging water like it was nobody's business--at least for the last hour or so. Why was this happening?
I was thinking of America at that point. "I've been to the desert on a horse with no name./It felt good to be out of the rain./In the desert, you can't remember your name/and there ain't no one there to give you no blame." I couldn't remember if it was "blame" or "pain." Whichever it was that was wrong. What the hell did that mean anyway? I could remember a whole bunch of stuff but my head was getting real light.
Earlier in the day it was about coyotes. The damned coyotes who had nearly taken over the camp who were ravenous in my imagination. Now, it was dehydration. They told us about that. At least they told us what to look for in the girls. I had forgotten about me.
Moriah told me to just sit. Stay still. They were sending a team out to come and get me in one of the jeeps. How did she communicate with them? Was she psychic, too? Sending signals back to the base without a walkie-talkie?
Our group of girls was ahead by some distance, bouldering up one of the rocks. I wanted to see the pool of water where they were headed that had frogs or tadpoles or mosquitoes or whatever would live out in this god-foresaken place.
"Book."
"What book are you looking for? Something in your daypack?"
For some reason that's all I could say. I knew I wasn't making much sense, but it was hard getting the words out of my cottony mouth.
In Concord, Massachusetts Henry David Thoreau began falling in love with his benefactor's wife. Lydia Emerson was a woman of her time, trapped in a loveless marriage with a man who was one of the first real celebrities of the time. I was wondering, out at Joshua Tree National Park, what made Thoreau head out to the woods near Walden Pond--alone. Two years, two months, and two days. What the hell was fracturing at this point was my own sense of isolation, even in the desert all around with a large group of girls from near Hancock Park LA, like a swarm of industrious bees?
"Book?"
"Hey, Bri, just sit still for a bit, will you." Moriah's canteen extended from out of nowhere it seemed, voice disembodied from where I was hearing it. "Just swig this down and keep drinking. They'll be here soon."
My step-father pulled hard from the flask, grinning at me, handing the pint to me. He was there as clear as day.
This is the story of my life until then. My education. What went wrong. Light failing. How death comes to you like the roar of a fire or like a pin-hole in a shoebox to view an eclipse by. Something so small as we fade/to/black.
In reality, I haven't seen him in over 10 years. The day I left home and entered college was the last time I saw him. He just showed up at my dorm on Old Campus in New Haven. Booker T. Washington. Of course, not THE Booker T. Washington. Book, as my brother and I referred to him, had changed his name from Booker T. Wolfolk.
He drank a lot. That's all I could say and what I remember most: his hard drinking side.
Out in the desert, I didn't remember much about him. Vision was waning.
"Hey, Bri, have you had any water lately? You don't look so good?"
"Book?"
"Why don't we get you back to base camp so you can take it easy?" The girls were far in front of us. We were acting as sweepers for the stragglers who couldn't make the entire trip up the rocks.
Moriah's question wasn't really a question. She was ordering me back along the trail to link back with the other adults who couldn't make the trip.
"No, I'm...I'm...cool." In actually, I was very hot and my head hurt something terrible. Pounding like a ball peen hammer between my eyes. I was swigging water like it was nobody's business--at least for the last hour or so. Why was this happening?
I was thinking of America at that point. "I've been to the desert on a horse with no name./It felt good to be out of the rain./In the desert, you can't remember your name/and there ain't no one there to give you no blame." I couldn't remember if it was "blame" or "pain." Whichever it was that was wrong. What the hell did that mean anyway? I could remember a whole bunch of stuff but my head was getting real light.
Earlier in the day it was about coyotes. The damned coyotes who had nearly taken over the camp who were ravenous in my imagination. Now, it was dehydration. They told us about that. At least they told us what to look for in the girls. I had forgotten about me.
Moriah told me to just sit. Stay still. They were sending a team out to come and get me in one of the jeeps. How did she communicate with them? Was she psychic, too? Sending signals back to the base without a walkie-talkie?
Our group of girls was ahead by some distance, bouldering up one of the rocks. I wanted to see the pool of water where they were headed that had frogs or tadpoles or mosquitoes or whatever would live out in this god-foresaken place.
"Book."
"What book are you looking for? Something in your daypack?"
For some reason that's all I could say. I knew I wasn't making much sense, but it was hard getting the words out of my cottony mouth.
In Concord, Massachusetts Henry David Thoreau began falling in love with his benefactor's wife. Lydia Emerson was a woman of her time, trapped in a loveless marriage with a man who was one of the first real celebrities of the time. I was wondering, out at Joshua Tree National Park, what made Thoreau head out to the woods near Walden Pond--alone. Two years, two months, and two days. What the hell was fracturing at this point was my own sense of isolation, even in the desert all around with a large group of girls from near Hancock Park LA, like a swarm of industrious bees?
"Book?"
"Hey, Bri, just sit still for a bit, will you." Moriah's canteen extended from out of nowhere it seemed, voice disembodied from where I was hearing it. "Just swig this down and keep drinking. They'll be here soon."
My step-father pulled hard from the flask, grinning at me, handing the pint to me. He was there as clear as day.
This is the story of my life until then. My education. What went wrong. Light failing. How death comes to you like the roar of a fire or like a pin-hole in a shoebox to view an eclipse by. Something so small as we fade/to/black.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Hellhound on My Trail (previously from www.achildsbook.com)
Cars lined up for a solid block as I pinballed my way out of the pocket of the restaurant’s drive-thru to the open road. I slammed on my breaks, trying to avoid hitting the car immediately in front of me. I had just come from Popeye’s on MLK and had to get home before the day proved to be a total loss—papers to grade and parent phone calls to make. My forays into fast foodland had spilled over from my monthly haircuts at Terrell Brandon’s Barbershop on Alberta to wherever, or more precisely whenever. Whenever I didn’t feel like eating the soup that was probably a better bet for my expanding autumnal waistline, I tramped through the city’s streets. So, I tacked hard to the right and parked in front of the cue (flash—red car—SUV—minivan—white car), then I saw him. For an instant, he reminded me of my grandfather old Zach Thomas, an old brown man kissing the pavement after too much cheap liquor—Night Train, Ripple, Peppermint Schnapps. I thought he had just gotten hit. My heavy foot wanted to accelerate to the open field—to Alberta then I-5 South to 405 South to the 26 to the 217 to Walker to home (touchdown)—but my hand inched to the handle to open the door. Something submerged in me said, “Help him dammit! Help him and you’ll help you.”
“Are you alright, Pops?” My voice dinged against the honking cars, reverberating too loudly in my own ears. I lifted the man to his feet. He teetered once more, almost falling again against the now useless shopping cart, bashed in on its left side, that once supported his weight.
“I’se ar’…ok, Ah guess. Where’s you goin’ man?”
That slurred question that met my question thrust me back to a man I barely knew. Yet, another relative who taught me vicariously about losing control and creeping despair.
“Can you gib’me a ride hom’?”
I looked south down MLK noticing the stares of the passerbys, trying to gauge my own reactions in their lancing stares. My moment of truth had arrived at last. The other cars, road, and the world dissolved to a timeout. Twenty-three years after Zachariah Thomas had die; I finally had a chance to dialogue with one of hellhounds that drives me, the son of the son of an ex-sharecropper, still.
Finally, I said, “Yeah man, I’ll take you home.”
I don’t remember all of the details of that ride, attempting to find his house while looking for North or Northeast Fremont; he couldn’t be entirely sure. Neither place seemed familiar to him, limp memories gouged by a long time inebriate’s faulty wires. He told me he was once a boxer once. He told me about a girl he used to love. He told me about everything it seems except what I wanted to hear.
I listened hard for the fight still left in him. He pissed in my car getting out.
I said, “That’s ok man. It’s ok. Really.” An old baseball jersey from my over thirty league team was martyred for his sake, their sake. BBB, which stood for Birmingham Black Barons, my grandfather’s boyhood colored team, embroidered across the chest. I left him to keen across Williams Avenue, away from where he told me that he wanted to go.
The boxer took me on a ride that I was never to forget, even though it was hard to hear exactly what he said to me. But as usual, I make it up. Creating the words for him, echoing
I think he said, “Son? I’m proud of you, boy. Damn proud to know you.”
Foot on the pedal, back to my own house now, soiled jersey in back near the spare tires of my new used car, barreling down field, looking for daylight.
© 2000 by Brian W. Thomas
“Are you alright, Pops?” My voice dinged against the honking cars, reverberating too loudly in my own ears. I lifted the man to his feet. He teetered once more, almost falling again against the now useless shopping cart, bashed in on its left side, that once supported his weight.
“I’se ar’…ok, Ah guess. Where’s you goin’ man?”
That slurred question that met my question thrust me back to a man I barely knew. Yet, another relative who taught me vicariously about losing control and creeping despair.
“Can you gib’me a ride hom’?”
I looked south down MLK noticing the stares of the passerbys, trying to gauge my own reactions in their lancing stares. My moment of truth had arrived at last. The other cars, road, and the world dissolved to a timeout. Twenty-three years after Zachariah Thomas had die; I finally had a chance to dialogue with one of hellhounds that drives me, the son of the son of an ex-sharecropper, still.
Finally, I said, “Yeah man, I’ll take you home.”
I don’t remember all of the details of that ride, attempting to find his house while looking for North or Northeast Fremont; he couldn’t be entirely sure. Neither place seemed familiar to him, limp memories gouged by a long time inebriate’s faulty wires. He told me he was once a boxer once. He told me about a girl he used to love. He told me about everything it seems except what I wanted to hear.
I listened hard for the fight still left in him. He pissed in my car getting out.
I said, “That’s ok man. It’s ok. Really.” An old baseball jersey from my over thirty league team was martyred for his sake, their sake. BBB, which stood for Birmingham Black Barons, my grandfather’s boyhood colored team, embroidered across the chest. I left him to keen across Williams Avenue, away from where he told me that he wanted to go.
The boxer took me on a ride that I was never to forget, even though it was hard to hear exactly what he said to me. But as usual, I make it up. Creating the words for him, echoing
I think he said, “Son? I’m proud of you, boy. Damn proud to know you.”
Foot on the pedal, back to my own house now, soiled jersey in back near the spare tires of my new used car, barreling down field, looking for daylight.
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