Safe Space

 As I was stripping the hallway walls of the book report posters and enjoying the momentary respite before the bell would call the wild denizen out to run free for five minutes, my mind began to wander about the upcoming year. Everyone is always so hopeful that the next new crop will be good kids. They will complete their work on time. They will be inquisitive and will love math and reading. My books will disappear off my shelf because they sneak them out to read, and keep them by their bedside for the whole year, not because they lose them at the the bottom of their locker eventually tossing them into the lost and found as though my name were not on it. They will be quiet and stay in their seats and not need to go to the water fountain, bathroom, or locker every few minutes to escape. 

This made me think about our loud student. The one we all know even though we don't have her in our own class. It dawned on me that she will not have an audience. How will she get the attention she needs? Then I thought about the bully. I wonder who will be protecting him from his bullies -- the ones who taught him how to pick on others. I thought about my little friend who, when given free time, hunts me down and corners me to show me his art, or computer program, or story that he wrote instead of playing with the other children. Who will be there for him to share?  There's my genius chess player, who loves to shout and make funny noises to make people laugh. Will he be all alone studying all summer? Lastly there is my negative Nancy. A glass half empty person, her every response to "how was your weekend" was always "Terrible." All she does is complain about having to take care of her sisters by making breakfast before school and dinner after school. Will she now be their all day caregiver, cooking breakfast, lunch, and dinner without anytime for herself nor anyone her age to play with. 

As happy as I am for school to end to get away from all the ones that were problematic, I am in reality worried about them as each and every behavior good or bad comes from home first, and I pray they have peace until they can get back to this safe space called school.

Lunch Date

 

I lunched with a wasp

I, a green salad and he a 

green caterpiller

A Prelude to Blueberries

 

tiny white petals

honey sweet scent fill the air

blackberry prelude

Adolescent Alliteration

I was creating a piece for the website Six Word Memoirs and decided to create it as alliteration. I will admit, I was on the fence with "AI" because we use it as one word, but it is actually two. Does this mean mine is actually a seven word Memoir? Hmm.

Adolescents adore: apathy, anime, angst, AI

The Mulberry Tree II

 The Mulberry Tree

Other kids had tall sentinel oaks dropping helicopters that danced and spun in the wind, or majestic maples throwing acorns to the squirrels. They stood tall on broad thick trunks and dwarfed the houses in their shade. No grass could grow beneath them for they blocked all the sun. Nor could we ever dream of climbing the giants for the lowest branch was miles above our heads. To us, their sole purpose was to serve as home base. It was a place where a Seeker could lean their forehead. With eyes closed and a limited view if they tried to peek due to the sheer girth of the trees, they would chant: 

“Last night, 

Night before, 

24 robbers at my door

I got up,

Let them in,

Hit ‘em in the head

With a rolling pin. 

One, two, three,… ” 

… while everyone else sprinted to find the perfect hiding place.

However, the tree in our backyard was special. It was not a tool to be used in play. It took care of us. We were sent out in the morning and not allowed back in the house until dinner time. There was no snacking; it could ruin your appetite. Some got lunch; most – did not. So, it became our tree of life. It was a beautiful –  squat, short and wide with limbs and leaves that branched out into a huge Angela Davis afro. It was decorated with delicious purple, red and black mulberries that were covered in tiny squishy cracks and crevices waiting for us to eat. At its base was a trunk with the most perfectly gnarly twists and turns that were stairsteps to the fruit ladened branches above. All the neighborhood kids would converge on our treasure in the afternoons and climb as high as we could reach, straddle a sturdy branch, and pluck the juicy berries that stained our hands permanently purple and popped them in our mouths. We stuffed ourselves until we could not make room for one more single berry.  Then, we’d carefully climb back down and run off to play – pausing only to wipe spider webs from the rusty water spigot beside the house before taking a cool drink.  

One day, my daddy, tethered to his oxygen tank, leaned out the window and called down to me to get a bowl, and fill it up with mulberries for him, which I happily did. After quickly scrambling up and gathering as many as the bowl could hold without losing my balance, I ran back into the house and handed it to him.

He said, “No, go into the kitchen and fill the bowl with water. Then pour salt into it, and let it sit for an hour.”

Salt? I was grossed out, but I did what I was told. Why in the world he wanted salt on his berries was beyond my comprehension. After an hour, he called me back in and told me to go get the bowl. He told me to pour off the water, then rinse them. 

When I went to grab the bowl, I froze. 

There, floating on top of the water, were thousands of tiny little black bugs. 

I was beyond speechless.

It was absolutely disgusting.

I miss those mulberries. 

They really were so sweet and delicious. But, needless to say, that was absolutely the last time I ever put another mulberry in my mouth.

** This story was inspired by a prompt from EthicalELA.com I wrote it as a poem for them yesterday and prose today.

My Mulberry Tree

My Mulberry Tree

Behind our house

Was the most beautiful tree. 

It had an Afro

That spread wide

Decorated with 

Purple red black 

Mulberries

Covered in tiny crack and crevices.

Its trunk 

Short, squat and gnarly

Steps for us 

to climb

Up

Into the fruit-ladened

Branches.

We straddled

Them as we plucked

And popped berries

Into our mouths

With our forever purple

Stained hands.

My daddy,

Tethered 

to his oxygen tank,

Called down one day.

“Get a bowl, 

Fill it

With berries.”

I did.

“Now, cover it 

with water,

Pour in 

Salt.

Let it sit

For an hour.”

In one hour

I grabbed 

the bowl.

And Froze.

Tiny Black 

Bugs

Floated

Swam

Covered

The top of the 

Water

That covered

The mulberries.

Many 

Many

Bugs.

I miss mulberries.

I never ate 

another one.

Spring Fever

It is truly that time of year. The restlessness has set in and the lack of focus is impacting work. Everyone is suddenly tardy as if there is no concern for consequences. Reports are turned in late – if at all. Patience and respect for others is all but gone and there is the occasional shouting or bitter bite-back talk and sass in the hall. Admin is rarely available to quell any issues, and when they are, even they find a little pushback. Spring fever and the nearness to the end has truly affected everyone. Everyone is ready for summer … and so are the students.