2 Little Words

It's amazing the power of words. Never underestimate them. As a teacher, I have the power to build up or tear down - all with the power of my words. I hope fellow educators realize this. We all should realize the power our words have.

Here is a journal entry from my time with the Writing Project:


This morning’s discussion with the jigsaw articles, especially “Helping African American Males Reach Their Potential” was so powerful. I don’t know if it was the topic or that we initiated the discussion rather than the facilitators or what but it was the most lively and interesting discussion all week!

This is the type of environment I love and thrive in: passionate, heated, opinionated exchange of dialog. I, like the author, am so connected to the topic of African American male achievement. Not only do I teach African American males, I have two at home. Making sure they live up to their potential and achieve is a constant topic in our home.

They are in a positive light: surrounded by examples of academic success; two parental figures in the home both with college degrees, middle class environment; exposure to a variety of elements conducive to the academic world including travel, music, theater; high expectations with the support to achieve them; positive adult support structure. And still we worry about them academically and their future. We fully realize that we may have to pay for High School to ensure they have the best learning experience to make them competitive for college.

Then I think about my students who don’t have nearly as many resources as my children. As somone said during our discussion, I fight even harder for them.

Which takes me to the idea of expectations. I’m still bothered by the idea of “at least”. They are only two little, one-syllable words, yet they speak volumes. To me, you lower anything you put them in front of.

At least you’re off the streets.
At least you’re not in jail.
At least you go to school.
At least you went to college.

At least implies that there’s no more to do – or if you do achieve more it’s “gravy”. The expectation implied by at least is that you weren’t supposed to make it to where you are, the thing you put behind those two words. What power we yield with those two words. You have the power to knock someone down, to crush their dreams, to stifle their motivation. You’ve taken away what they are supposed to do or what you expect them to do. You are saying, “I expected you to do less so at least you are doing the minimal above that expectation.”

At least; the minimal.

I expected you to end up in the streets – at least you're not.
I expected you to be in jail – at least you’re not.
I expected you to drop out of school – at least you did not.
I expected you to never make it to college – at least you did that.

Reaction to "Girl"

A great way to connect with a book ... for yourself or your students. Write a reaction to something you've read. I had to do this to a text called "Girl". In quotes is the portion I chose to write my reaction to.

“… this is how to behave in the presence of men who don’t know you very well, and this way they won’t recognize immediately the slut I have warned you against becoming …”



Mama, I don’t want to become a slut. I want to be a good girl. I really do. I’m trying so hard to do as you say. I want to obey you. I want you to be proud of me. But, mama, I also want to grow to love someone. I sometimes think about boys. I know I’m not supposed to, I know. But, mama, isn’t it OK to think about a boy, a nice boy mama, someone you would like. Because I do, sometimes I think about what it would be like to hold his hand or have him say I’m beautiful. Maybe even ask me to take a walk or go to a dance. Wouldn’t that be all right, mama? Wouldn’t it be OK if a nice boy asked me to go on a walk? If he came to you and papa and asked your permission first so you know he’s a good boy? If it happened that way, mama, then I wouldn’t be slut. Right? I would be a good girl, who was liked by a good boy, who asked a girl’s parents properly, right mama? Then, maybe, I could enjoy the walk and not feel guilty for liking a boy – and, maybe, not be the slut you warned me against becoming.

It's Time

A Vignette I wrote during a summer workshop with my local affiliate of the National Writing Project:

It's Time

She didn’t hear the door open. There was no sound. Only the quiet, rhythmic, synchronized breathing of the two who were once one. Truthfully, she didn’t want to hear the door, or disturb the silence, or have this moment end. As long as she stayed in this moment, as long as they were wrapped in the silent cocoon, she could forget – forget that it was time.

Her presence signaled that it was time. Her support, her anchor, Marlene. An expert in her chosen craft, she knew to keep her distance, knew that these last few moments were precious. And although it was time, she could spare them a few more memories.

There were no seconds, minutes, hours. There was only now and, soon, beyond. She chose to enjoy the now a bit longer. She had no idea how long they’d laid that way. She in the hospital bed, her head raised slightly. Snuggled against her lay her daughter; belly to belly, in an almost fetal position. She could feel every movement between them: her breathing, her tiny body moving ever so slightly up and down; the quick palpitations of her heart; the occasional twitch disturbing an otherwise motionless sleep. It was as if she were still in her womb relying on her body for her very survival. Not anymore. Not ever again. After the now her daughter would rely on others to sustain her life, the couple she had chosen herself for the adoption.

As if on command, her head turned. A single tear rolled down her cheek – she knew it was time. The perfect bubble ended, soon to be replaced with an almost unbearable pain. Pain, yes, but never regret. She had given her daughter the only gift she was capable of giving – life. And now she would give that gift to two who could not give it to themselves.

It was time. Time to say good-by. Time to weep. Time to feel the hurt. Time to let go of the now and begin beyond.

And so it begins ...

So, as the title of my blog says, people have always told me I should write. The truth is that I've always loved to write. Yes, I was the geeky kid in school, college, and graduate school who was actually happy - relieved even - when they said the "test" would be essay. "Yes!" I cheered to the total dismay of my fellow classmates.

When people began reading things that I had written, they would eventually say, "Wow! You should write!" OK ... exactly how was I going to accomplish this task. The only way I thought people "wrote" things was to write a book. And, come on, how was I going to actually write a book, not to mention get a publisher to want to publish it, and then find people (not related to me) who would pay money to read it!

So I never thought I would write, at least beyond my own journals, etc. Then I saw that people blogged. I stumbled onto other people's blogs and really enjoyed reading what they posted. There was this world, totally unknown to me, where people were able to write.

But, alas, how does one become a "blogger"? Truth be told: I wasn't even sure if that was the correct term. Again, I felt this was some mysterious, evasive process that I was on the outside looking in.

As it turns out, ANYONE can blog! So, here I am, creating my very first blog. Wow! I feel so accomplished! The good news: I'm writing. Something I've always wanted to do. Another positive: I don't have to pay for this AND I didn't have to track anyone down to "publish" me. The not-so-good-news: I still haven't figured out exactly how one gets people to read or follow or join or whatever it is you do to get people to know you're out there!

Nevertheless, here I am, writing, and enjoying myself. I hope that others "find" me and enjoy what I write as well. Until then, I'll have my own, personal celebration ... here's to writing!