hope in the boy
photo by Papa Johnson
Will is loving his grandparents unabashedly, grabbing their hands to toddle out the door with them, confident that good, sweet things are in the works; imagining, each time the phone rings, that the warm voice of Mimi or Grandma or Papa will be on the line.
We love it too. Now that William is here we can happily recede a bit in our parent’s eyes and let the bright focus fall on him, like something has been cosmically fulfilled. Now even if we fail catastrophically—or more likely in a million small ways— there is still hope in the boy.
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Filed under writing | Comments (3)I heart middle school
William at his weekly Spanish Class
Photo by Billy
This afternoon I went back to the middle school where I used to work, to use the kiln there. After several years away I was surprised to see kids I remembered and even more shocked that some of them recognized me.
As I walked past the office, I even heard a few quick gasps of excitement–
“It’s her!” someone whispered. “Ms. Johnson!” two girls called from down the hall. They were taller than me now, with soft sculpted faces, and fat-laced tennis shoes. Nearly women. “Hello!!” they grinned.
I hated being in middle school, and when I tell folks I’ve taught in one, they often look at me as if I am crazy, because they hated that time in their lives too. But it’s different: being in middle school vs. teaching there. It’s like being a nurse in a war-zone, attending to freshly wounded solders and recent amputees. At the end of the day you’re tired, sure, but grateful for your relative wholeness…
But today these kids seemed full and overflowing. They seemed almost wise, nearly sweet, hopeful even. I lingered in the hall, kids sweeping past me toward the bus loop, puffy jackets and backpacks, hoping that some of their newness would rub off on me.
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Filed under writing | Comment (1)up? up? wee!!!
Photos by me
My two valentines rock the beloved wagon, a gift from Billy II and Billy Byrd
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Filed under writing | Comment (1)Coconut
Photo by Billy
Today I slid my ninth story in the mailbox, off to the big apple. Now I’m turning my attention to the tenth and (hopefully) final story in the middle school set. Of course I have more revisions to make; how do you keep stand alone stories huddled together, linking to one another in meaningful but tangential ways? Anyway, here’s a short excerpt of one of the stories, called “Coconut.”
I was a nice girl until second semester when Principal Jackson ushered Satya into our English class. “Her family just moved here from India,” he told our teacher, loud enough for us to hear. When he said “India,” he brought his hands together and squeezed, as if expecting some strange sweet fruit to ripen. Predictably, a few kids looked over at me.
After that, I figured we’d just get back to English: diagramming sentences. But instead, Joseph Martin, The-Cutest-Boy-In-The-Seventh-Grade, straightened from his usual bored slouch. He looked all interested as the new girl pushed her dark hair from her face.
When Joseph sat up, everyone else kind of sat up too. And my best friend, Trisha, called out, “She can sit over here! Next to me!” dragging an unused chair toward us with a loud screech. Then Miss Paige asked the new girl to tell a little about herself.
When she spoke, her voice was deep and proper. Her eyes were green or brown—I couldn’t tell which. Silver bracelets twisted up her arms. Her hair hung limply down to her waist. Her brown face was open, plain. “Isn’t she beautiful?” Trisha whispered hotly in my ear.
She told us she’d only just moved to Virginia with her dad, who was a poet. Before that she’d lived in London for almost a year. She shared her history backwards, finally arriving at the source: “In India, we lived in New Delhi for a while,” she said, “but I grew up in Poonami, on the coast of the Arabian Sea. It was lovely, there, really. You all should go.” After this invitation, she took a seat near the front of the class.
That should have been the end of it. But instead, people started to whisper. I saw Joseph Martin text messaging, his cell phone low on his lap. By the end of the morning, everybody knew about the new girl from India. Everybody was practically creaming their pants to make her feel at home.
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