Blog Entry Two

LEARNING TO TEACH #1

Worst high school in Baltimore. Half white, half black. First semester.   

Just twenty-two. Beleaguered intern. Forty students per class.  

One grammar textbook. Date, 1950. I thought trash bent.

No show Supervisor. No-things about teaching English. 

I winged teaching throughout first semester.

Math teacher, burly, black, whom I befriended, 

thinks I am the only one can coach football.

“Who me? An intern? Teach football? I can’t teach English, 

and you think I’ll coach football?” I nearly ran.

A whitey-white teacher imagines football practice.

Imagines blowing the whistle to organize the drill. 

Imagines the assignments gone right or wrong. 

Imagines ends, tackles, guards, centers, running backs,

fullbacks, quarterbacks huddled with me, looking on.

Math teacher, pushing me to win games, says

“Push yourself harder. Make yourself a quiet leader.”

Cap adjusted, plays on my pad, whistleblower “tweeting,”

I started practice. Looking back, I said “Four wins and zero defeats!”

I thrust my right fist in the air, slapped fists from everyone.

We could not believe the luck we’d had thus far.

Tired now, trudging to the third floor, turning,

I said “You can come in, have some soda and chips,

and clink glasses to celebrate,” as if nothing happened.   

Black, fourteen, an offensive tackle, wondering out loud

before he entered, “I’ve never been in a white man’s apartment.”

Didn’t know whether to enter. Engrained by black racism.

I gave no thought to his experience with institutional bias. 

“Come in! Look around. Particularly the books.” 

Glancing out the window “Watch traffic flow from here.” 

“Here, plop yourself down on the couch. Have some soda.”  

The blinding light came on. “Racism. Here on the third floor. 

Where blacks and whites must get along.” The words had been spoken.

I understood what gulf had been broached. Blacks and whites equal.

Glancing at me, understanding more than I thought, 

he said “Yes. I know” and entered the apartment. First entrance. 

LEARNING TO TEACH: 2

Tie always askew, amidst the lecturing, hands on hips, glaring at him,

slumping in the back row, laughing with the class, thinking

“Pain in the fucking ass,” I exploded. “NOW! OUT!” And pointed to the door. 

”Good riddance too bad rubbish.” Office gobbled him up. One day suspension. 

Back, wrecking my class. I went to the office to suspend him for three days.

The maximum time. He faced his father, who viciously beat him.

He working in the bowling alley, knees down, setting up pins by hand.

For three days.  I knew that “pain in the butt” would return.  

He did.  Suddenly he vanished from high school. 

Rubbing my hands in glee, I said “One down.”He re-entered school. 

Still in my f**king class. I couldn’t get rid of him. Rumbling in my gut.  

“What do I do now?” I shook my head, suffered, decided, and forgot.  

Un-slumping, over-confidently, standing, swaggering, jostling others,

marching to the front, he said “Hey Parker.  Let’s get this over with.

Arm wrestling.  Are you up for it?  Put your elbow on the desk.”  

Leering at me, unrolling his sleeve, muscles bulging, 

his arm on the desk, as if he would eat me for breakfast. 

What would I lose if I didn’t arm wrestle him?

Humiliation?  Pride? I didn’t know which way to turn.

I see myself losing, yet, taking off my coat, sitting down, 

unrolling my sleeve, arm ready to go, looking at him,

the students clustering around, waiting for me to slip.  

and glaring back and forth. Are you ready, set, go. 

Sweat dribbled down our faces. Back and forth we struggled. 

I felt my hand going toward the desk. He was winning.

I forced my hand back up. Suddenly I won. Miraculously. 

Unrolling his sleeve, swaggering as he went back to his seat 

he’d lost the ‘fight’ but won the trust. Me, in his corner. 

Sitting at the back, lifting his head, with a roaring voice, 

glaring at the class “Hey, you bunch of fuck offs, shut up.”

LEARNING TO TEACH: #3

‘Ma,’ a prostitute, had bucks always fucking her.  Didn’t know her father.

Burp, first child. Ma looked the other way.  Shined her nails.

Sloppy. Threw things ‘round’ the trashy apartment, 

Slatternly mid-wife cleaned up the crap.

Ma smoked dope to chill out when she didn’t

have a buck to fuck her. When buck came to fuck her, 

she kicked out the fucker on her ass.

Girl-woman sat in front of the class.

She had a crush on me. She didn’t know how old she was.

She didn’t have a birth certificate.  The girl-woman slept in her clothes

on the rundown sofa. She hung out at Dollar General store.

She didn’t have a nickel to her name.

She scuffed around looking for stuff she couldn’t afford.

She wore the same clothes every day.

Yet, she was here in school waiting to be called on

She put her hand up for everything.

She had no answer to anything.

After school was over, sitting in the same seat,

she arranged chars in a row or offered to help me pack my bag, 

desperate to make a connection.  Only to me. 

What could she do?  Nothing.  She had no where else to go.

She walked me to the MG Roadster.  Sometimes I dropped her off.

Her hair unwashed.  Her teeth unbrushed.  

Her broken nails.  Her skirt, funky. Her broken shoes. 

Her skinny white legs.  Slumped over, homely, kept a jacket on,

yet, with a half-smile on always. What if I had taken her to the apartment?

Roommates would be floored.

Maybe I could have given money.

Maybe she was semi-literate.

Maybe she was street smart.

Maybe I should have called social services.

Maybe she was eighteen.

Maybe I should have shopped for her.

Maybe Ellen could dress her.

Why do these sentences keep haunting me?

Anyway I did nothing at all.

Walked away from my first semester.

and never looked back.

What would face the new intern?

Who would come into the class second semester?

Angry group of students? Scorched because their intern vanished? 

Fleeing forward? Dated Ellen and finished my MAT degree. 

Blog Entry Three

April 29, 2020

Finished eating another delicious meal. Sandy picked up the plates, walked into the kitchen where he washed the dishes. Jen and I sat outside, chairs reclining in a closed patio.  Pool glinting back at us. We looked up and saw palm and olive trees, multiple electric lines crossing, rackety birds on top of telephone poles, and breeze blowing southwest disappearing. We saw the sky darkening. We saw fragile, light pinkish clouds floating west to disappear into sunset. A virtually abrupt sunset. We liked how silent it was. It was for us a peaceful silence.  It was for us a musing silence. A virtually apostolic silence. I don’t know what Jen saw as she looked out in sp. She saw something. Something different than I did. Gemini daughter, Virgo dad. Floating across my consciousness. 

I wanted to say three or four sentences to Jen. First I drank water. I put down the glass  As I turned to her, one brief thought went through my mind: a light indigo T-shirt. “Saluti” it said on it.  A second thought: crinkly red hair. Creases just starting on Jen’s face. A third thought: my inner voice began to push the words out. While my mind still orders the words I have to say to her.  I decided, somewhat instantaneously, what the neurons would say. It would one be one sentence, not three or four. It would say “Enid said ‘Onward’.”  I started to make the words clear as I could. For me and for her. Individually and collectively. Finally a short sentence. Every . . .  individual . . . word. To be sure that I have it right. Jen waits patiently, only a few seconds had passed between us. I said “Enid . . said . . onward.”  I wanted to make sure they were pronounced suc-cinct-ly and with a modulating tone of voice. She half-grinned at my success. She said ”Onward. That’s a good word for what we’re doing right now Nice. Why don’t you text her thanks.” I said “I will.” I typed a text in my cell phone and sent it off to her.

For Chris

Queen concert in NYC. Live.

First time Chris asked if he 

can attend the rock concert.

Instinctively, I drew back and said  

“Chris. You’re just sixteen.”

Then I thought more about it.

I said “yes,” reluctantly.  

He was ecstatic. He couldn’t wait. 

He marveled at Madison Square Garden. 

To myself I said “Fifty thousand people.”

I grumbled but went.

We went in the underground tunnel, 

and parked in the bus terminal.

As we walked toward the Garden, 

I remember his long hair, 

red-brown parted in the middle.

His scraggly hairs on his upper lip.

His five foot nine inches and skinny.

Half-grin, ironic. Always inside 

Virtually I see him know. 

We arrived. Out of breath.

Thousands milled around waiting to enter.

I hurried and showed two tickets.  

He waved us in. We were seated.

Noise level was deafening.

I looked around. Eighty thousand, not fifty.  

After all, Queen was playing.

Standing, he hooted and raised his fists

in the air. I gripped the chair.

Audience whistled, clapped,

jumped in the air, moving side to side.

Queen came on stage. 

Audience erupted.  Delirious with joy.

Just as quick sat down on edge of chairs.

Queen started together. Just played.  

“Bohemian Rhapsody.” “Somebody To Love.” 

“We Will Rock You.” “Who wants To Live Forever.” 

He zoned as Queen. He knew them all by heart.   

He saw himself as merging with the players playing rock. 

The other vision, he swayed to the music. 

He screamed, whistled and clapped at the music.

Excruciating, glistening, louder than god, rock music.

Chris playing virtual rock, transformed by his acoustical, 

soon to be bass, guitar. I had two visions in my head.  

Grounded visions.  Fabulous visions.  

I loved the concert.  Couldn’t hear all the way home. 

Didn’t matter. He said “Thanks, Dad.”

April 2020

Sandy set my plate in front of me.

Pork chops with chimichurri salsa, 

white potatoes, sliced thin, baked 

until almost hard, and red-green salad.

I liked all the food but found it

hard it to swallow.  “Half a throat,”

I said to myself.  Another stroke outcome.

I pushed through the meal, 

chewing, coughing slightly.  

Wiped my lips with a napkin in a ball.  

I used three napkins. Sandy stood and

handed him empty plates. 

Scraping back from the table, 

I looked at her and saw crinkled red hair,

particularly the wrinkling ends, 

and freckles all over her body.

I worked to near speech.

Scattering sounds from me.

Running, connected, sounds from Jen.

Strokes crippled my talking.

She turned to me and asked 

what I liked about the place

here in S Pasadena.  I grinned. 

Reflecting, but only for a moment.

“I like the feeling that I’m

here with you and Sandy.”

It felt like home.  Now.

I bowed briefly and,

lovingly, meant everything I said.

Serene-ing?

Around whirling 

ripples going

absolutely flowing 

to the source-ing . . . ?

Blog Entry Four

Seven Months ‘Inside’

Arising. Sucking it up. Cocooned by virus. 

Hands on knees, slippers on, creakily standing,

brushing my teeth, coffee percolating,

blood pressure steady, hauling on jeans,

steaming mug in hand, plopping on couch,

I watch PBS news for an hour. 

Telly off, shuffling to desk, laptop fired up,

Bill Evans jazz on, I write poems and prose.

Laptop off, walking to the patio, 

pool glinting upwards, under a cloudless sun, 

staring up to space, arms reaching out, 

I read Paley short stories or Harjo poems.. 

I close the book. Slowly standing. To the casita.

Doing QiGong exercises. Then lunch, 

Then international mysteries. Then showering.

Writing, mysteries, and writing. Five hours passed.

It’s six o’clock. I text Sandy “I’m off.”  “I’m back,” I text again. 

Tired now, relaxing, drinking water, 

international mysteries, waiting for dinner. 

Dinner finished, looking at tall olive tree, 

I say “There’s three tiny hummingbirds in the tree.”  

Jen says “I see .” I point. “Look right there. 

A humming bird guzzling the sugar water.” 

She sits up in her chair and looks closer. 

“Wow, that’s awesome. Thanks.’ 

I get up slowly. When standing, I say 

“Buona notte”and walk, as forcefully 

as I can, to the casita. Then more mysteries. 

That’s my day in brief.

Cannes

1982. Jen and Andrea. Step-sisters.

Seventeen and nineteen. Arms around mine.

Strolling along the boardwalk. We stopped, 

turning, and looked toward the sea. Foreground:

the figure straightening the towel before she lay down. 

Her breasts were running free. We swept the horizon. 

Big breasts, medium breasts, small breasts. 

Wiggling, squiggling, as if they did not care. 

Our hands on the railing to steady ourselves, 

her hand in front of her mouth, naked on top, incredulously, 

Jen looked at me aghast. “All the naked breasts were 

open to breathe the sun!” We looked at the naked breasts

again. We stared right and left. I envisioned big breasts. 

Curving waist. Tiny panties. Dick stiffened.

Images come back to me. Vividly. Flash, crackle, bang.

With Some Slight Variations

I write poems and (sort of) stories.

You play classical and jazz piano.

“In writing vision, or zoning out, is inside my head” I say.

“In piano the music takes me outside my head” you say.

For us, writing and piano playing continue.

I like classical concerts. You love classical concerts.

Classical concerts are cancelled for the time being.

I like theater. You like theater.

Theater is cancelled for the time being.

I read. You read. Whatever comes our way.

We all love reading. For us bring it on.

Reading continues indefinitely.

I do QiGong. You do yoga. 

Exercise continues indefinitely.

I like news and light/dark mystery episodes. 

You like news and light/dark mystery episodes.

Telly does saves us. It continues indefinitely.

You take Sage classes. I don’t take classes.

I , six months in casita, plus masks.

You, six months in condo, plus masks. 

I say, “Shit!” You say, “Expletive!”

Writing and reading are keeping me sane.

Piano and reading are keeping you sane.

We have slight variations. We like those variations. 

I, determination. You, courage. Is there something else?

Anyway, we say onward.

Text Message

You: What is word retrieval? Do you mean you’re trying to remember a word?

Me: Strokes create aphasia. Word retrieval comes when you remember only one or two things. Then it is blankness. You have to drag it out of your word retrieval system. Or not. You get anxious. Maybe impossible. Say, clothes or types of plants or fruits or women’s names or emotions, etc. You name it. You know? Sometimes I’m full of words; sometimes I’m blank. Sorry. I run on. 

You: That’s what I thought. Some days are worse than others.

Me: Definitely! Particularly when you have something to say to a close friend or family.  Jen for example. I like to wait until Sandy is in the kitchen, and I can speak to Jen alone. She is willing to wait while I get ready to say something to her. And I make myself tell her in speech. Halting. That’s why writing on the cell phone is easier. Infinitely easier.

You: Yes, I figured that out. How frustrating for you! You do make yourself understood though, and that’s a good thing. You just need a patient listener.

Me: Yup, I need a patient listener. But I need a compatriot. Who learns how to listen. But, even more, learns to talk in an interesting way, a unique way, a fascinating way to me. A fuck or damn way. That’s the reason that I call and text every day.

You: Sweet man. Thank you.’