If I ask, “Am I not a woman?”
I don’t expect all these suggestions.
Maybe I spent my time perfecting my cordiality
learning not only your missions and passions and operations
and concerned over and over, overlooked grammars
In between and through those inter-intra-actions
I will promise worth over and over, overlooked inter-intra
between and to you and me.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Reports of Sexual Misconduct
Esther sat before the mirror. She had grabbed the Windex without much thought. She had been finishing the Pinot Grigio she had also used in the pasta sauce, but she was quite sure she would have ended up in front of the mirror with the same disgust anyway.
The funny thing in her gut was this--Esther knew she was not anything. She had met him once. Phoned a few times. Emailed to no response. He, however, had been everything. A CEO of change. A spiritual leader. So much more than she.
She remembered. He loved brownies—always offer him a brownie when he comes in, that will ensure a laugh. She didn’t care, but, now, she remembered. Offer him a brownie. She was smart enough never to actually do that. It was not her joke. He was not her friend. She was not looking for that. If she were, she would have probably scheduled more meetings for the organization. She didn’t care about that. Not when she knew what the organization was really about.
“This is an intellectual organization,” she had heard and guessed she was supposed to add that to her heart and share it with the people she spoke with on the phone. But they didn’t care either. They were intellectuals—smart enough to know what it was.
Esther had always followed the rules, with care. She was a self-admitted tattletale, but she only fessed up when it was important. In seventh grade, it was the beer her best friend had stashed in the backyard playhouse. She did everything the best proven way she knew how. She only purchased and drank French wine with an appreciation, less an understanding of taste, for the men and women who had protected it through war.
Now, there was nothing to tattle. The story had been all over the news, and it was so completely removed from her, there was no reason she should have needed the Windex.
Perhaps it was because she knew she would wake the next morning at the appropriate time. She would dress in her pinstripe slacks and the silk, cowl neck blouse she had found, surprisingly, at the Goodwill store. She would smile in the pleasure of both fashion defiance and creativity with the running flats she would add to the outfit until she reached her cubicle. But she knew all independence was lost with her shoes. After her shoes, she would pick up her phone. She would open her Outlook. This was her second month at this cubicle.
Esther sprayed the mirror again. She worked consciously against the edges she had missed before. Esther knew the Windex would still leave dirt. Dust would collect around areas in a casual defiance of her vigor. The paper towels would leave some lint. She sprayed and worked furiously, attempting to catch up with the drips of blue liquid climbing down the surface. And she sprayed again. Finally, Esther dropped the towels in a pile beneath the mirror, stood to see her full self and turned to go to bed.
Esther had always followed the rules. With care. He was not her friend. She knew what the organization was really about, but she would wake up the next morning. She would devote a few minutes to place the cleaner in the second bathroom cabinet and toss the used towels in the garbage. Be certain, she would find pleasure in her defiance. But she would take off her shoes.
The funny thing in her gut was this--Esther knew she was not anything. She had met him once. Phoned a few times. Emailed to no response. He, however, had been everything. A CEO of change. A spiritual leader. So much more than she.
She remembered. He loved brownies—always offer him a brownie when he comes in, that will ensure a laugh. She didn’t care, but, now, she remembered. Offer him a brownie. She was smart enough never to actually do that. It was not her joke. He was not her friend. She was not looking for that. If she were, she would have probably scheduled more meetings for the organization. She didn’t care about that. Not when she knew what the organization was really about.
“This is an intellectual organization,” she had heard and guessed she was supposed to add that to her heart and share it with the people she spoke with on the phone. But they didn’t care either. They were intellectuals—smart enough to know what it was.
Esther had always followed the rules, with care. She was a self-admitted tattletale, but she only fessed up when it was important. In seventh grade, it was the beer her best friend had stashed in the backyard playhouse. She did everything the best proven way she knew how. She only purchased and drank French wine with an appreciation, less an understanding of taste, for the men and women who had protected it through war.
Now, there was nothing to tattle. The story had been all over the news, and it was so completely removed from her, there was no reason she should have needed the Windex.
Perhaps it was because she knew she would wake the next morning at the appropriate time. She would dress in her pinstripe slacks and the silk, cowl neck blouse she had found, surprisingly, at the Goodwill store. She would smile in the pleasure of both fashion defiance and creativity with the running flats she would add to the outfit until she reached her cubicle. But she knew all independence was lost with her shoes. After her shoes, she would pick up her phone. She would open her Outlook. This was her second month at this cubicle.
Esther sprayed the mirror again. She worked consciously against the edges she had missed before. Esther knew the Windex would still leave dirt. Dust would collect around areas in a casual defiance of her vigor. The paper towels would leave some lint. She sprayed and worked furiously, attempting to catch up with the drips of blue liquid climbing down the surface. And she sprayed again. Finally, Esther dropped the towels in a pile beneath the mirror, stood to see her full self and turned to go to bed.
Esther had always followed the rules. With care. He was not her friend. She knew what the organization was really about, but she would wake up the next morning. She would devote a few minutes to place the cleaner in the second bathroom cabinet and toss the used towels in the garbage. Be certain, she would find pleasure in her defiance. But she would take off her shoes.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
there was a genocide. and there is.
helpless silence.
is that the result
of a bachelor's degree? of four years
and history and context
and analytical thought
is that all we have?
but it is more
so much more
than just that
because we're embarrassed
ashamed.
we're speechless with guilt
not guilt because we were not there
not guilt because we are not there
for most, not because we're white
not because we lived in the dorms
laughed with our friends
became depressed for a week and forgot
not because of any of that
it's because our talk was just talk
a discussion that turned into a
discussion into a
discussion and into a
discussion.
it's about the media
but you didn't really listen
and I didn't know how to listen
because no one knew what was
important.
so we listened all wrong
and our talk was just talk
and I suppose
that we grow up when talk is realized,
when helpless silence is met with action.
or maybe it is just when helpless silence is
allowed to be helpless silence.
I am not grown.
I am not wise.
I don't believe in that kind of humanity.
is that the result
of a bachelor's degree? of four years
and history and context
and analytical thought
is that all we have?
but it is more
so much more
than just that
because we're embarrassed
ashamed.
we're speechless with guilt
not guilt because we were not there
not guilt because we are not there
for most, not because we're white
not because we lived in the dorms
laughed with our friends
became depressed for a week and forgot
not because of any of that
it's because our talk was just talk
a discussion that turned into a
discussion into a
discussion and into a
discussion.
it's about the media
but you didn't really listen
and I didn't know how to listen
because no one knew what was
important.
so we listened all wrong
and our talk was just talk
and I suppose
that we grow up when talk is realized,
when helpless silence is met with action.
or maybe it is just when helpless silence is
allowed to be helpless silence.
I am not grown.
I am not wise.
I don't believe in that kind of humanity.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Sweet, dear Esther
Esther would have had to take the 16 to the 84, or the 50S to the 84, but either way it was a transfer and a trip down the construction obstacle course of University Avenue. She was okay with the bus ride. In fact, the bus ride was the most calming part of her day. The bus drivers always seemed to be on her side, and they were the true arbiters of justice; weaving the massive machines in between rush hour traffic and representing the voice of the environmentally and budget conscious with expletives spouted at any driver who dare cut him off.
She would have pushed back the sheets at exactly 5:30, probably waking up well before her alarm simply to relax before facing the day. She would have hurried to get dressed before all else to create a layer between her extremities and the under heated apartment. Her oatmeal would have been heating on the stove, her lunch, a grain salad, already waiting in the fridge. She would rush through the tasks of dressing and primping, not because she was late, but to spend twenty minutes relaxing with KARE 11 and her oatmeal with apple slices. Most of the time the news struck her as a tabloid report, but she enjoyed the intrigue and meaningless banter between reporters. She would have been out the door and at the bus stop by 6:20.
But this morning she was out the door with the same routine an hour later, catching the 16 with her regular bus driver going in the opposite direction toward her temporary job, which left her with temporary feelings about how much effort she should devote to temporary assignments or office friendships. It did not help that her co-workers had the same difficulty negotiating her temporary existence. She was regularly included on an Outlook invitation to a happy hour at McCormick & Schmick’s, but the electronic invitation was a temporary fix to alleviate such temporary social concerns.
She had been thrilled to receive the phone call. She had been in the middle of mashing ripe bananas with a force that challenged kickboxing exercises. It was an unknown number, but she did not expect this call on a Saturday. He spoke quickly, so all she heard at first was “Hazzard University,” but it was all she needed. She was thrilled. If she could impress this man, she would have a full-time, permanent job offer and tuition reimbursement. Of course she could interview right away! The bananas would be forgiving.
He spoke with unrestrained speed, but she paced herself. She would think and speak clearly this time, and she did. Immediately following she noted his answers to her questions. She took time to manipulate his answers in her mind before heading back to the bananas. She would wait to email until Sunday. He said he would be done screening applicants on Monday. It would be perfect timing.
It took her an hour to confirm the name and email address of the man she had spoken with the day before. He had mentioned his name so quickly on the phone, and she knew better than to ask at the end of the interview. Instead she used his answers to her questions to find his profile at the school: ten years at Bickman U and a Roosevelt High School graduate. She typed his email address with purpose and inserted each planned sentence of appreciation in the message below. The final line included a: “Hope you were able to enjoy some weekend time,” which inspired her smile—she could be a people-person. She clicked send, closed the laptop and returned to her weekend spree of domesticity.
On Monday, she met her bus driver at 7:20 and returned to the temporary tasks assigned to her. With no response in her email box, she spent the first hour encouraging herself to work with passion.
The Director of Planned Giving never knew names. He probably did not have time to learn them. He burst into her cubicle space and requested a meeting at 4:00, sweetie, and her resolve to work with passion dissolved as she offered to reserve the small conference room.
At 4:00, Esther stood at the Director of Planned Giving’s office, quietly knocked on the door and reminded the busy man of the meeting scheduled at 4:00 in the small conference room. She held a consciously slower pace on the walk from his office, allowing his waist line to keep easily up with hers, and asked about his weekend. The Director of Planned Giving cackled: “Weekend?? I don’t remember what the hell I did on the weekend!” Though there was a socially unacceptable pause after his comment, Esther felt no reason to speak. The Director of Planned Giving began speaking again: “Well, on Saturday I took my dog to obedience class,” and with certain glee mentioned, “and then I napped all day.” Of course, she thought and he continued, “On Sunday I watched football.” There was another short pause before he remembered: “And what about you?”
Esther smiled to herself as she told him, “Oh, it was fabulous! I cooked and cleaned the house all day on Saturday. We had delicious eggplant pasta salad, roasted tomato soup and banana bread for dinner with friends. On Sunday, I cared for my one month old niece and read my book club book.” Sweetie and the Director of Planned Giving walked into the conference room. Sitting down, the Director of Planned Giving questioned “So, what do you need from me, dear? Either Dear or Sweetie smiled and offered: “You had wanted me to practice my board member phone calls with you.” Dear or Sweetie dutifully began a practice conversation, and Esther counted the minutes until her hourly commitment dictated freedom.
Esther returned to her desk to two replied emails from the Roosevelt High School and Bickman University graduate and former employee, now employed at Hazzard University. With clearly no time to adhere to grammar, the Graduate had written, “esther- thanks for your meail and questions let’s plan to connect. give me a call after you get done with school.” Even if she had wanted to call, the last digit of his phone number was missing from the email. His email concerned her more because she neither went to school nor had asked questions in her thank you email. The Graduate’s second message relieved her of the first: “Esther- I apologize for the last message. I was responding to a student and hit reply to yours!” Though his story did not seem likely, he did want to “plan to connect” anyway to schedule a second interview. He phoned later that evening.
“Esther, how are you?” The Graduate asked at 8:15 that evening. “I would love to schedule a second interview. Are you free sometime in the next three days?” Esther figured three days was a significant block of time to work with both schedules and suggested anytime in the morning, when the bus ride to Hazzard would be shorter from home than the temporary workplace. This seemed to confuse the Graduate. He wondered out loud which of his colleagues would be available. Esther clarified, “Well, I could meet in the afternoon as well, I just figured the bus ride would be shorter in the morning from my home.” With even more options, the Graduate’s confusion became debilitating it seemed. He started five sentences before finishing his thought, “Esther, I’m going to call you tomorrow to schedule the interview. I want to check on a few things at the office.” Esther politely agreed and closed her phone. She waited through the next day for a phone call from the Graduate and after no calls decided to follow-up with him herself the next day.
Esther was just getting on the bus the next morning when her phone lit up with an incoming call. She might have answered, but she hated hearing phone calls on the bus. She was quite sure the bus drivers hated overhearing calls as well, and she was not about to make an enemy with an arbiter of justice. She figured the call could wait thirty minutes when she arrived at her cubicle.
There was no doubt to her annoyance when Esther heard the voicemail left from the Graduate at 7:20 that morning. He gave her directions to the university as if she were already late for the interview! She immediately called him back, “I do apologize, but I never knew we had scheduled a meeting. Is there another time later this week you can meet?” The Graduate sighed, at least twice, and did not hide the annoyance in his own voice, “Well, I guess we have misunderstood each other. You know, I am not sure I will be able to find another available time this week.” Esther begged to the Graduate. She really did not know that a meeting had been scheduled, and she would meet him at any other time. But that was it. He did not promise another meeting; he only continued to explain his busy schedule. Esther acquiesced with a meek apology and “thank you” and closed her phone. She was livid but too disappointed and shocked to appropriately experience her anger.
Esther put her coat away, turned on her computer, filled her coffee cup and sat down in front of her email. Just as she resolved to start a project, she heard a shuffle up the hallway, “Sweetie! We need to schedule a meeting!”
She would have pushed back the sheets at exactly 5:30, probably waking up well before her alarm simply to relax before facing the day. She would have hurried to get dressed before all else to create a layer between her extremities and the under heated apartment. Her oatmeal would have been heating on the stove, her lunch, a grain salad, already waiting in the fridge. She would rush through the tasks of dressing and primping, not because she was late, but to spend twenty minutes relaxing with KARE 11 and her oatmeal with apple slices. Most of the time the news struck her as a tabloid report, but she enjoyed the intrigue and meaningless banter between reporters. She would have been out the door and at the bus stop by 6:20.
But this morning she was out the door with the same routine an hour later, catching the 16 with her regular bus driver going in the opposite direction toward her temporary job, which left her with temporary feelings about how much effort she should devote to temporary assignments or office friendships. It did not help that her co-workers had the same difficulty negotiating her temporary existence. She was regularly included on an Outlook invitation to a happy hour at McCormick & Schmick’s, but the electronic invitation was a temporary fix to alleviate such temporary social concerns.
She had been thrilled to receive the phone call. She had been in the middle of mashing ripe bananas with a force that challenged kickboxing exercises. It was an unknown number, but she did not expect this call on a Saturday. He spoke quickly, so all she heard at first was “Hazzard University,” but it was all she needed. She was thrilled. If she could impress this man, she would have a full-time, permanent job offer and tuition reimbursement. Of course she could interview right away! The bananas would be forgiving.
He spoke with unrestrained speed, but she paced herself. She would think and speak clearly this time, and she did. Immediately following she noted his answers to her questions. She took time to manipulate his answers in her mind before heading back to the bananas. She would wait to email until Sunday. He said he would be done screening applicants on Monday. It would be perfect timing.
It took her an hour to confirm the name and email address of the man she had spoken with the day before. He had mentioned his name so quickly on the phone, and she knew better than to ask at the end of the interview. Instead she used his answers to her questions to find his profile at the school: ten years at Bickman U and a Roosevelt High School graduate. She typed his email address with purpose and inserted each planned sentence of appreciation in the message below. The final line included a: “Hope you were able to enjoy some weekend time,” which inspired her smile—she could be a people-person. She clicked send, closed the laptop and returned to her weekend spree of domesticity.
On Monday, she met her bus driver at 7:20 and returned to the temporary tasks assigned to her. With no response in her email box, she spent the first hour encouraging herself to work with passion.
The Director of Planned Giving never knew names. He probably did not have time to learn them. He burst into her cubicle space and requested a meeting at 4:00, sweetie, and her resolve to work with passion dissolved as she offered to reserve the small conference room.
At 4:00, Esther stood at the Director of Planned Giving’s office, quietly knocked on the door and reminded the busy man of the meeting scheduled at 4:00 in the small conference room. She held a consciously slower pace on the walk from his office, allowing his waist line to keep easily up with hers, and asked about his weekend. The Director of Planned Giving cackled: “Weekend?? I don’t remember what the hell I did on the weekend!” Though there was a socially unacceptable pause after his comment, Esther felt no reason to speak. The Director of Planned Giving began speaking again: “Well, on Saturday I took my dog to obedience class,” and with certain glee mentioned, “and then I napped all day.” Of course, she thought and he continued, “On Sunday I watched football.” There was another short pause before he remembered: “And what about you?”
Esther smiled to herself as she told him, “Oh, it was fabulous! I cooked and cleaned the house all day on Saturday. We had delicious eggplant pasta salad, roasted tomato soup and banana bread for dinner with friends. On Sunday, I cared for my one month old niece and read my book club book.” Sweetie and the Director of Planned Giving walked into the conference room. Sitting down, the Director of Planned Giving questioned “So, what do you need from me, dear? Either Dear or Sweetie smiled and offered: “You had wanted me to practice my board member phone calls with you.” Dear or Sweetie dutifully began a practice conversation, and Esther counted the minutes until her hourly commitment dictated freedom.
Esther returned to her desk to two replied emails from the Roosevelt High School and Bickman University graduate and former employee, now employed at Hazzard University. With clearly no time to adhere to grammar, the Graduate had written, “esther- thanks for your meail and questions let’s plan to connect. give me a call after you get done with school.” Even if she had wanted to call, the last digit of his phone number was missing from the email. His email concerned her more because she neither went to school nor had asked questions in her thank you email. The Graduate’s second message relieved her of the first: “Esther- I apologize for the last message. I was responding to a student and hit reply to yours!” Though his story did not seem likely, he did want to “plan to connect” anyway to schedule a second interview. He phoned later that evening.
“Esther, how are you?” The Graduate asked at 8:15 that evening. “I would love to schedule a second interview. Are you free sometime in the next three days?” Esther figured three days was a significant block of time to work with both schedules and suggested anytime in the morning, when the bus ride to Hazzard would be shorter from home than the temporary workplace. This seemed to confuse the Graduate. He wondered out loud which of his colleagues would be available. Esther clarified, “Well, I could meet in the afternoon as well, I just figured the bus ride would be shorter in the morning from my home.” With even more options, the Graduate’s confusion became debilitating it seemed. He started five sentences before finishing his thought, “Esther, I’m going to call you tomorrow to schedule the interview. I want to check on a few things at the office.” Esther politely agreed and closed her phone. She waited through the next day for a phone call from the Graduate and after no calls decided to follow-up with him herself the next day.
Esther was just getting on the bus the next morning when her phone lit up with an incoming call. She might have answered, but she hated hearing phone calls on the bus. She was quite sure the bus drivers hated overhearing calls as well, and she was not about to make an enemy with an arbiter of justice. She figured the call could wait thirty minutes when she arrived at her cubicle.
There was no doubt to her annoyance when Esther heard the voicemail left from the Graduate at 7:20 that morning. He gave her directions to the university as if she were already late for the interview! She immediately called him back, “I do apologize, but I never knew we had scheduled a meeting. Is there another time later this week you can meet?” The Graduate sighed, at least twice, and did not hide the annoyance in his own voice, “Well, I guess we have misunderstood each other. You know, I am not sure I will be able to find another available time this week.” Esther begged to the Graduate. She really did not know that a meeting had been scheduled, and she would meet him at any other time. But that was it. He did not promise another meeting; he only continued to explain his busy schedule. Esther acquiesced with a meek apology and “thank you” and closed her phone. She was livid but too disappointed and shocked to appropriately experience her anger.
Esther put her coat away, turned on her computer, filled her coffee cup and sat down in front of her email. Just as she resolved to start a project, she heard a shuffle up the hallway, “Sweetie! We need to schedule a meeting!”
Friday, September 23, 2011
TCP: The Short Story
Everyone thinks my name is Kenny. Even though I know why, I still don't really know why. I can only explain both whys in the following story.
My real name is Darnell. Every white teacher I meet tenses up-well tenses up isn't even the right description. It's more like a case of ninth grade nausea. You know, that consistent feeling of total surprise and unknowing mixed with utter terror of saying the wrong thing to the senior feeling up his (pregnant?) girfriend in front of your locker. You could just leave and get to math, but you're already failing algebra and today is the midterm. That's how white teachers react to my extra l. The smart ones leave it alone, but some call out "Dar-nellllllllllll" leaving me to wonder if I should leave it alone (it wasn't really my name) or to respond an obilgatory: "here!"
Most of the terror involved with my name is what I call Freakonomics nomination. I've got a black kid's name, and worse, I've got a black guy's name. They'll tell you all about it in Freakonomics, but the short version is that my name is associated with years of a teacher's worst nightmare. Even if I'm a good black guy, the best I can amount to is a class clown with a crime and drug ridden future. Goodness knows I'm not in Algebra 2 honors, so I can't be the 1% at our school who have a Bachelor's degree guaranteed. That's just one unfortunate part of my name.
The other is my grandmother. As my name might further suggest, I am the son of addicts. To keep myself happy, safe and sane, I live with my grandmother, who is generally an awesome person to be around. The thing about my grandmother is that she is particular. She works as a receptionist for a test tube manufacturer in the suburbs, and she is especially particular about that. Because my grandmother works in the suburbs, she and I live in the suburbs. Despite this, my grandmother insists that I attend a city school. I think my grandmother looked up all the city and state officials to see what school they went to and decided on Grant High because it had the most alumni in the group. It's also possible she knows them all personally. Either way, I use my crack addict address to go to Ulysses S. Grant High School, which, much to my grandmother's unaware, has fallen-just as Grant-in it's own alcoholic stupor. It's not the worst high school in the city, but it's not the best. Really it's the forgotten school. And everyone in it. The teachers are the forgotten: not bad, not good. The student body is not the best but not the worst. Only Hamilton Benton, an ancient janitor, who remains loyal to Grant, pride of the East Side, can be called the best in the city. And Benton leads the best building engineer staff in the city. If there is one good thing about Grant, we've got the friendliest key masters and the cleanest toilets on this side of the Mississippi.
I like Grant. I am glad my grandmother sent me there, but I don't get bussed, and my grandmother picks me up everyday. This would be fine if she could come at the same time everyday, but with her particulars and our '92 Saturn, usually the time is unpredictable. Anyway, at first it was surprising more people didn't know my name because it's called out on the PA system when she gets there everyday. Of course my grandmother can't get a cell phone like other parents. Instead I'm jolted from a computer comic strip creation program in the library and forced to walk around half the school as my grandmother insists that the secretary call for me over and over: "Dar-nellllllllllllllll Forster, your grandmother is here to pick you up!"
But I'm really Kenny at this school. The day I became Kenny the Saturn actually got me to school on time. Teachers hold you in the cafe for fifteen minutes if you're late and get to know which kids are always late. Even if you've only got a '92 Saturn and a particular grandmother to depend on, they only care that you were late to their most important history lesson of all time. But on this day, the car was working fine, and my grandmother got up early, and I got to school on time.
The day kept going like that. We had a quiz in algebra with four questions straight from our book that I had happened to look at the night before. I got the toilet that actually flushed without having to wait during passing time, and Miss. French actually smiled when she overheard me tell Davon my colon pun.
I knew the day was going too well when Destiany Harris asked for a pen to borrow. She could have asked Joe, the freshman wrestling state finalist, but me! She asked me!
And at the beginning of third hour I gradually learned of my fate for the day. Assigned seating. It's always a crapshoot. Richard Steven, a first name, last name guy, decided we were getting too rowdy. Steven began calling out names, and I attempted to calculate my chances of landing a lucky seat between Destiany and Davon. My calculations took too long to ever give me an answer, but it didn't matter. On this best day of all days Davon sat right in front of me and Destiany just to my left. On my right, I had a perfect view of the courtyard and students skipping class.
Then the sun came, beautiful and warm at first. The kind of sunshine that ushers in peace to your body and soul. I was peaceful.
For maybe three minutes.
First, I began to sweat. Just a little sweat that didn't bother me, but then it became a torrential sweat. My pores lost all control, and I know my Old Spice melted and melanged into a newer, bold spice. I could not raise my arm for fear of Destiany seizuring from a bold spice shock, so I did my best to connect every line on my paper into similar triangles. I always started at the first line and connected it with the red, indented line. The first line shook with my mind and every sequential line. Tip to triangle tip and-damn, whatever. Now the next, okay good-and the next-damn! Start over here okay, okay-damn! Whatever, connect it anyway and-
"Mr. Forster, did you confuse this with art class?"-a skeptic above me.
I wasn't stupid, but I stared at those lines, biding time but really memorizing every imperfection. Every kiltered line, each mismatched angle until my right eye could only stare to the far left bottom triangle and my left eye to the far right top. I was more mismatched than my triangles, and this realization snapped me right back:
"I'm gonna puke."
With possible concern but probable fear of a smelly classroom, I was immediately sent to the nurse.
Ann Bonar has an unfortunate name and, as names go, it fits her perfectly. With absolute lack of concern, except for her clean office, she shuffled me to the main doors to wait for an unpredictable Saturn and a particular grandmother.
Grant has, unsurprisingly, a lack of shade. I now passed the sweat, under the sun, unmatching the perfectly matched grout between sidewalks and bricks, spinning my eyes. As my angled world tangled, I forced myself back through the doors of Grant. The first floor was out: main office, nurses' office, possible sighting of Destiany. Sunlight highlighted the tiles each perfectly yet imperfectly matched on the stairway: my ascent both into and out of the heart of sunlight and darkness.
I was so shocked I made it to the top, I had not considered my goal. I looked left: the boys bathroom, one good flushing toilet. I looked right: the college access programs office. Ok, this was it.
Relief came with a healthy smell of my lunch mixed with stomach acid, saliva and other entrees of my innards emanating from the small, metal trash bin I was bent over.
"So, Kenny, have you thought about college?" the white, teacher girl asked me, I was pretty sure it was me, with an idealistic smile. Folks never stop at Grant. They're always working for our success. Apparently not our real names.
"Kenny? I just thought while we waited for your grandmother, we could talk about your options."
With my options in trash bins and in colorful brochures over her desk, Grant High School deemed me Kenny, and, I'd like to think, to a special few, trashcan puker.
With my options in trash bins and in colorful brochures over her desk, my unpredictable grandmother arrived with a very concerned Ann Bonar.
Written June 2009.
My real name is Darnell. Every white teacher I meet tenses up-well tenses up isn't even the right description. It's more like a case of ninth grade nausea. You know, that consistent feeling of total surprise and unknowing mixed with utter terror of saying the wrong thing to the senior feeling up his (pregnant?) girfriend in front of your locker. You could just leave and get to math, but you're already failing algebra and today is the midterm. That's how white teachers react to my extra l. The smart ones leave it alone, but some call out "Dar-nellllllllllll" leaving me to wonder if I should leave it alone (it wasn't really my name) or to respond an obilgatory: "here!"
Most of the terror involved with my name is what I call Freakonomics nomination. I've got a black kid's name, and worse, I've got a black guy's name. They'll tell you all about it in Freakonomics, but the short version is that my name is associated with years of a teacher's worst nightmare. Even if I'm a good black guy, the best I can amount to is a class clown with a crime and drug ridden future. Goodness knows I'm not in Algebra 2 honors, so I can't be the 1% at our school who have a Bachelor's degree guaranteed. That's just one unfortunate part of my name.
The other is my grandmother. As my name might further suggest, I am the son of addicts. To keep myself happy, safe and sane, I live with my grandmother, who is generally an awesome person to be around. The thing about my grandmother is that she is particular. She works as a receptionist for a test tube manufacturer in the suburbs, and she is especially particular about that. Because my grandmother works in the suburbs, she and I live in the suburbs. Despite this, my grandmother insists that I attend a city school. I think my grandmother looked up all the city and state officials to see what school they went to and decided on Grant High because it had the most alumni in the group. It's also possible she knows them all personally. Either way, I use my crack addict address to go to Ulysses S. Grant High School, which, much to my grandmother's unaware, has fallen-just as Grant-in it's own alcoholic stupor. It's not the worst high school in the city, but it's not the best. Really it's the forgotten school. And everyone in it. The teachers are the forgotten: not bad, not good. The student body is not the best but not the worst. Only Hamilton Benton, an ancient janitor, who remains loyal to Grant, pride of the East Side, can be called the best in the city. And Benton leads the best building engineer staff in the city. If there is one good thing about Grant, we've got the friendliest key masters and the cleanest toilets on this side of the Mississippi.
I like Grant. I am glad my grandmother sent me there, but I don't get bussed, and my grandmother picks me up everyday. This would be fine if she could come at the same time everyday, but with her particulars and our '92 Saturn, usually the time is unpredictable. Anyway, at first it was surprising more people didn't know my name because it's called out on the PA system when she gets there everyday. Of course my grandmother can't get a cell phone like other parents. Instead I'm jolted from a computer comic strip creation program in the library and forced to walk around half the school as my grandmother insists that the secretary call for me over and over: "Dar-nellllllllllllllll Forster, your grandmother is here to pick you up!"
But I'm really Kenny at this school. The day I became Kenny the Saturn actually got me to school on time. Teachers hold you in the cafe for fifteen minutes if you're late and get to know which kids are always late. Even if you've only got a '92 Saturn and a particular grandmother to depend on, they only care that you were late to their most important history lesson of all time. But on this day, the car was working fine, and my grandmother got up early, and I got to school on time.
The day kept going like that. We had a quiz in algebra with four questions straight from our book that I had happened to look at the night before. I got the toilet that actually flushed without having to wait during passing time, and Miss. French actually smiled when she overheard me tell Davon my colon pun.
I knew the day was going too well when Destiany Harris asked for a pen to borrow. She could have asked Joe, the freshman wrestling state finalist, but me! She asked me!
And at the beginning of third hour I gradually learned of my fate for the day. Assigned seating. It's always a crapshoot. Richard Steven, a first name, last name guy, decided we were getting too rowdy. Steven began calling out names, and I attempted to calculate my chances of landing a lucky seat between Destiany and Davon. My calculations took too long to ever give me an answer, but it didn't matter. On this best day of all days Davon sat right in front of me and Destiany just to my left. On my right, I had a perfect view of the courtyard and students skipping class.
Then the sun came, beautiful and warm at first. The kind of sunshine that ushers in peace to your body and soul. I was peaceful.
For maybe three minutes.
First, I began to sweat. Just a little sweat that didn't bother me, but then it became a torrential sweat. My pores lost all control, and I know my Old Spice melted and melanged into a newer, bold spice. I could not raise my arm for fear of Destiany seizuring from a bold spice shock, so I did my best to connect every line on my paper into similar triangles. I always started at the first line and connected it with the red, indented line. The first line shook with my mind and every sequential line. Tip to triangle tip and-damn, whatever. Now the next, okay good-and the next-damn! Start over here okay, okay-damn! Whatever, connect it anyway and-
"Mr. Forster, did you confuse this with art class?"-a skeptic above me.
I wasn't stupid, but I stared at those lines, biding time but really memorizing every imperfection. Every kiltered line, each mismatched angle until my right eye could only stare to the far left bottom triangle and my left eye to the far right top. I was more mismatched than my triangles, and this realization snapped me right back:
"I'm gonna puke."
With possible concern but probable fear of a smelly classroom, I was immediately sent to the nurse.
Ann Bonar has an unfortunate name and, as names go, it fits her perfectly. With absolute lack of concern, except for her clean office, she shuffled me to the main doors to wait for an unpredictable Saturn and a particular grandmother.
Grant has, unsurprisingly, a lack of shade. I now passed the sweat, under the sun, unmatching the perfectly matched grout between sidewalks and bricks, spinning my eyes. As my angled world tangled, I forced myself back through the doors of Grant. The first floor was out: main office, nurses' office, possible sighting of Destiany. Sunlight highlighted the tiles each perfectly yet imperfectly matched on the stairway: my ascent both into and out of the heart of sunlight and darkness.
I was so shocked I made it to the top, I had not considered my goal. I looked left: the boys bathroom, one good flushing toilet. I looked right: the college access programs office. Ok, this was it.
Relief came with a healthy smell of my lunch mixed with stomach acid, saliva and other entrees of my innards emanating from the small, metal trash bin I was bent over.
"So, Kenny, have you thought about college?" the white, teacher girl asked me, I was pretty sure it was me, with an idealistic smile. Folks never stop at Grant. They're always working for our success. Apparently not our real names.
"Kenny? I just thought while we waited for your grandmother, we could talk about your options."
With my options in trash bins and in colorful brochures over her desk, Grant High School deemed me Kenny, and, I'd like to think, to a special few, trashcan puker.
With my options in trash bins and in colorful brochures over her desk, my unpredictable grandmother arrived with a very concerned Ann Bonar.
Written June 2009.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
If Emily Dickinson had email
there would not be so many poems
each hour each minute and day.
bards would not remember poems.
these poems are why
I can't get a good job.
packing boxes in the basement
before and after they all go home.
Even when I had one,
I was only packing boxes.
My indication should have been failed
high school latin.
each hour each minute and day.
bards would not remember poems.
these poems are why
I can't get a good job.
packing boxes in the basement
before and after they all go home.
Even when I had one,
I was only packing boxes.
My indication should have been failed
high school latin.
Still reading!
maybe it's because I don't have health insurance.
but Esther Greenwood's attempt at the ocean
didn't bother me because of the act.
I find sick, perhaps, pleasure on similar "ankle achy" beaches.
And in New York, I felt her vomit comaraderie.
I understood her fourth Marco margarita and
insistence to leave Doreen at the door.
It wasn't the idea of the act.
It wasn't about that. I cringed!
My palms, wrists felt almost numb. Unprotected.
Maybe that's why she couldn't do it.
but Esther Greenwood's attempt at the ocean
didn't bother me because of the act.
I find sick, perhaps, pleasure on similar "ankle achy" beaches.
And in New York, I felt her vomit comaraderie.
I understood her fourth Marco margarita and
insistence to leave Doreen at the door.
It wasn't the idea of the act.
It wasn't about that. I cringed!
My palms, wrists felt almost numb. Unprotected.
Maybe that's why she couldn't do it.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
More reservations from an assistant
reservation to confirm this reservation when email barely works to solicit confirmed reservations email to confirm an unknown set of reservations and my own irresponsible, wonderful desire to confirm any knowledge my secret reservation to hold future reservations.
An Assistant's Rhyme
reservation
service nation
will this be my
destination?
and my bosses
see no losses
on vacation
in each office.
service nation
will this be my
destination?
and my bosses
see no losses
on vacation
in each office.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Monday, May 23, 2011
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
On the occasion of the death of Osama bin Laden
Where have the hearts gone when
our Lord asked for peace and
understanding
among hearts.
and even without understanding
where have the hearts found peace.
Here was an awesome power
that cannot be met with awesome terror.
hearts together must not understand
shared, awesome, terrifying power.
our Lord asked for peace and
understanding
among hearts.
and even without understanding
where have the hearts found peace.
Here was an awesome power
that cannot be met with awesome terror.
hearts together must not understand
shared, awesome, terrifying power.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)