Cisneros-Inspired 2

                Abuelito Who

                Sandra Cisneros

    Abuelito who throws coins like rain

                and asks who loves him

                who is dough and feathers

                who is a watch and glass of water

                whose hair is made of fur

                is too sad to come downstairs today

                who tells me in Spanish you are my diamond

                who tells me in English you are my sky

                whose little eyes are string

                can't come out to play

                sleeps in his little room all night and day

                who used to laugh like the letter k

                is sick

                is a doorknob tied to a sour stick

                is tired shut the door

                doesn't live here anymore

                is hiding underneath the bed

                who talks to me inside my head

                is blankets and spoons and big brown shoes

                who snores up and down up and down up and down again

                is the rain on the roof that falls like coins

                asking who loves him

                who loves him who?

Let's see if it looks any different when it's my musings on another person's life, not my own:

                Madre Who

                Kelsie Baab

    Madre who pours love down the drain

                and asks for nothing back

                who is perfume and fingernails

                who is a cup of coffee in the morning

                whose skin is soft as satin

                is too busy to come outside today

                who tells me she's proud of my every move

                who tells me you are my sunshine

                whose button-eyes are shining

                won't come out to play

                stays in her little room all day

                who used to laugh like a mockingbird

                is away

                is a budding flower in rainy May

                is tired locked the door

                doesn't come out anymore

                is hoarding things beneath the bed

                whose memories waltz inside my head

                is sweat pants and jogging shoes

                who runs upstairs and downstairs up and down and up again

                is a cotton ball cloud in the sky

                asking for nothing but love

                nothing, love you.

Again, hm... I'm not sure how I feel that one turned out.  I'll retire for the night and revisit it in the morning.

Sandra Cisneros-inspired

"Salvador Late or Early"  by Sandra Cisneros

Salvador with eyes the color of caterpillar, Salvador of the crooked hair and crooked teeth, Salvador whose name the teacher cannot remember, is a boy who is no one’s friend, runs along somewhere in that vague direction where homes are the color of bad weather, lives behind a raw wood doorway, shakes the sleepy brothers awake, ties their shoes, combs their hair with water, feeds them milk and cornflakes from a tin cup in the dim dark of the morning. 

Salvador, late or early, sooner or later arrives with the string of younger brothers ready. Helps his mama, who is busy with the business of the baby. Tugs the arms of Cecilio, Arturito, makes them hurry, because today, like yesterday, Arturito has dropped the cigar box of crayons, has let go the hundred little fingers of red, green, yellow, blue, and nub of black sticks that tumble and spill over and beyond the asphalt puddles until the crossing-guard lady holds back the blur of traffic for Salvador to collect them again. 

Salvador inside that wrinkled shirt, inside the throat that must clear itself and apologize each time it speaks, inside that forty-pound body of boy with its geography of scars, its history of hurt, limbs stuffed with feathers and rags, in what part of the eyes, in what part of the heart, in that cage of the chest where something throbs with both fists and knows only what Salvador knows, inside that body too small to contain the hundred balloons of happiness, the single guitar of grief, is a boy like any other disappearing out the door, beside the schoolyard gate, where he has told his brothers they must wait. Collects the hands of Cecilio and Arturito, scuttles off dodging the many schoolyard colors, the elbows and wrists crisscrossing, the several shoes running. Grows small and smaller to the eye, dissolves into the bright horizon, flutters in the air before disappearing like a memory of kites.

I read this today during an in-service training session.  There is so much to be said about it on a literary level -- such ambiguous imagery, for example.  Why is Salvador so sad? Where is the father figure?  And, on another level, Salvador means savior in Spanish.  Whose savior is he, and where is his savior?  I don't want to talk about it on a literary level, though.  I'd like to say, for one, that it reminded me so much of my favorite Cisneros poem, "Abuelito Who" in content and style, and got me to thinking...

What a neat writing opportunity either of these pieces would be as a culminating poetry project.  Have your students mimic the vignette or the poem by replacing "Salvador" with images of themselves, or "Abuelito" with fragments of someone they know.  So, after talking about this with a fellow-teacher today, I thought I'd give it a try.

"Kelsie Always on Time "  by Kelsie Baab

Kelsie with eyes like burnt caramel, Kelsie of the short hair and immaculate teeth, Kelsie who always raises her hand in class, is a girl who is everyone’s friend, jumps off the bus and begins the long trek home, lives behind not one but two iron fences, throws her bookbag down, eats the snack Mother has prepared, pets the dog, watches TV, and starts her homework.  

Kelsie, always on time, arrives to school well-fed with a bagged lunch in her hand. Driven by Mother, who has nothing to do but dote over her beloved children. Runs up to Amanda, Emily, Kathryn, races them to class, because today, like yesterday, the girls have finished their homework, drawn diligent portraits of their families: Dad, Mom, Sister, self, and dog, and are eager to show one another the collage of crayon, ink, and stickers they've adhered to the worksheet, to see whose is the best, to peek behind them to see if Ann, yet again, forgot her assignment and, if not, what kind of poor materials she scrounged up to finish her collage, her self, her mom.

Kelsie stifled in Oxford-tee with matching vest, behind the dark, doe eyes that beg for validation, inside that sixty-pound body of girl with peach-cream skin, its history of love, limbs covered in kisses and powder, in some part of her eyes, in some part of her heart, in that package of her chest where hope throbs with two heads and knows only what Kelsie knows, inside that body too cavernous to locate the tiny balloon of happiness, the hundred guitar strums of grief, is a girl like many other girls disappearing out the door, beside the schoolyard gate, where Mother waits to collect her. She will climb into her car, away from the eyes of friends and teachers, cross her saddled-shoes with pink-lace socks.  The schoolyard will disappear behind her. Grow small and smaller to her eye, as she rides into the bright horizon, ready to face the world like a matador staring his bull in the eyes. 

Well.  That was interesting.  Sure takes on a different tone - almost sickeningly so as I deleted all the phrases which suggested Salvador's poverty and, thus highlighted my privileged existence, and it was hard to create a juxtaposing image in the line 15-16 about the balloon and the guitar, where Cisneros' poem so delicately suggests Salvadore's happiness despite his circumstances.  It was hard to turn the tables around, to depict dissatisfaction amidst great wealth.  

Is it beneficial to do so?

I can think of a few authors who have done so successfully: F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Berryman, Robert Lowell and other confessional poets, but is the message lost when the point is not to emphasize the underprivileged and the marginalized?  It just seems so... grossly like the musings of a whining schoolgirl.  I guess I'm asking the age-old question: Does art always have to be political?  (to which I resoundingly cry, "No!" but, then, why does my recreation of "Salvador Sooner or Later" seem so insignificant?  Is it my writing that belittles it?  My life?)

How depressing. Maybe "Abuelito Who" will yield better results.

On Teaching...

Please read.  The Hardest Job Everyone Thinks They Can Do.

Dennis Hong got it right when he said:

• Teaching isn’t just “making it fun” for the kids. 
• Teaching isn’t just academic content.
• Teaching is understanding how the human brain processes information and preparing lessons with this understanding in mind.
• Teaching is simultaneously instilling in a child the belief that she can accomplish anything she wants while admonishing her for producing shoddy work.
• Teaching is understanding both the psychology and the physiology behind the changes the adolescent mind goes through.
• Teaching is convincing a defiant teenager that the work he sees no value in does serve a greater purpose in preparing him for the rest of his life.
• Teaching is offering a sympathetic ear while maintaining a stern voice.
• Teaching is being both a role model and a mentor to someone who may have neither at home, and may not be looking for either.
• Teaching is not easy. 
• Teaching is not intuitive. 
• Teaching is not something that anyone can figure out on their own. 

     And furthermore, if you have great ideas about what your teacher friends should try in their classrooms, please, by all means, write them down.  Make a list on yellow-lined paper.  Number them in order of most important to least important... and then crumple your list up and throw it out the window.  Ask before bestowing your "real-world" knowledge onto your exhausted, real-teacher friend.  And, finally, offer your advice knowing that we have probably tried this very idea, if not something similar to it, and it either works or doesn't work, and don't be offended if we become defensive or even enraged at the idea of "showing our students that new show about Science on TV" or finding that interview on the NPR website that you heard last Tuesday but don't remember the name of, but seriously think we should spend our time finding because it was just "so relevant to students today." 


     If, on the other hand, you REALLY want to help your teacher-friends, here's some ideas that teachers would actually appreciate:

• Buy them pencils, stamps, poster board, and other classroom supplies, just because you were thinking about them and you know how much of their own money they spend on school supplies.
• Offer to help them decorate their room on a weekend!
• Bring them used/old books, dictionaries, magazines, or any other items that might be useful in a classroom (of course, ask before dumping them on their doorstep).
• Offer to come present to their class about the importance of education or how their class is relevant in the real world.
• Go to a school function with them (think high school basketball, choir concert, or school play).
• Volunteer to help drive during a field trip.
• Get your office to sponsor a club or classroom that your friend is involved in -- some organizations offer to pay for technology in classrooms, class sets of books, redecorating a room, or scholarships for students.  Be creative!

     Establishing a tie between the family and the school is essential, but building a connection between community and school is also important so students realize that society cares about them and that their education and participation in school functions can get them places, jobs, scholarships, etc. in real life.

Dear Timothy McSweeney,

     First and foremost, dear reader, I will initiate you into the inner circle of McSweeney-knowers; how many of you have heard of, read, and enjoyed the popular site www.mcsweeneys.net without truly knowing who the hell "Timothy McSweeney" is or was? Well, I have done a very minimal amount of research and, with a few flicks of my fingers, stumbled across the esoteric knowledge that you have all lacked until this very moment:

     McSweeney's is a publishing house founded by Dave Eggers, and the name comes from a certain Timothy McSweeney who, confusedly, wrote letters to Eggers' family when Eggers was a child and claimed to be a relative of Eggers' mother.  The original Mr. McSweeney is currently in care for mental illness, but, fortunately for us, his legacy lives on in the hilarious lists and articles produced by mcsweeneys.com.

     Therefore, I say again, Dear Timothy McSweeney (as you are the namesake of the site which is my muse today), thank you for your recent article, "The Ultimate Guide to Writing Better than You Normally Do."

     Mr. McSweeney (and to a lesser extent, Colin Nissan, the author of the article), thank you, thank you, thank you!  Your advice on how to write better really is helpful and relevant to the lay-man's world of writers- to-be.  As a teacher, I would love to and probably will share this article with my students down the road.  As an aspiring writer, I will print out the main points and make them my mantra every morning.  As a prophet, I will reiterate your main points and give you praise as needed below:

1.  Write everyday.  "Writing is a muscle. Smaller than a hamstring and slightly bigger than a bicep, and it needs to be exercised to get stronger."  I have tried to explain this to my struggling ELL students (English Language Learning) time and time again, but this quote is a very concise analogy that I think they can "get."

2.  Don't procrastinate.

3.  Fight through writer's block.  (This is more for me than anyone else -- every day when I want to post a blog but think I have nothing to say, I should write anyway!  I don't need to post every mundane blog I write, but better to write and "save as draft" than never to write at all!)

4.  Learn from the masters.  While Nissan says this tongue-in-cheekedly, I agree that aspiring writers should begin by reading, then imitating the masters.  Only when we are comfortable enough with recognized genius can we form genius-thoughts of our own, at least, imho.

5.  Find your muse.  (and I would add, then worship it, idolize it, but keep it to yourself.) If your muse is your tiny dog, so-be-it, but keep it to yourself.  You will sound much more intelligent saying inspiration struck than admitting that "Fluffy" breathed the words into your ear as you slept.  Furthermore, if your inspiration is your neighbor's house, your neighbor's wife, or your neighbor's ass -- worship it, love it, write analogies of your praise, but, by all means, especially those of your with your own house, wife, and ass, do not pursue it.  This is one way to get distracted from your writing, which leads to further frustration and procrastination (see #2).

6.  Hone your craft.  #1 and 3 and #6 might seem contradictory, as I blog to practice my writing muscle and fight writer's block, but I also keep the blog very private and do not advertise it, as I know I am simply flexing my intellectual muscle without really having anything to show.  Think of it as intellectual jerking off.  Until I can perform better than the average author, I would never ask that beautiful editor, neighbor, or friend to indulge in reading my meager blabberings.  Not until I am confident I will make the reader squeal with pleasure will I pass this link on to anyone in any sort of a hierarchical position.  (I apologize to those of you who've stumbled upon or committed to reading my blog prematurely).

7.  Ask for feedback.

8.  Read, Read, Read.  (and I will say read more and more and more!)

9.  Study the rules, and then break them.  As much as we all admire Picasso, Pollock, and Miro, we secretly know that they were all artists in the traditional sense before they found their own medium and popularized it.  In the same way, every writer should perfect the traditional arts of letter writing, the five-paragraph essay, mediocre poetry, and middle-of-the-road fiction before trying to re-create the wheel.  Yes, you may have ideas of how to improve the world of fiction, or sci-fi, or romance, but until you've proved yourself as a true minion of literature, your efforts will rarely be taken seriously.

and finally... 


10.  Keep it together.  Believe me, I know, we are all here on this writer's advice column because there is something a little off in our brains.  "Average" joes don't fool themselves into thinking (period), or into thinking that their thoughts are worthy of other people's time.  So, what makes us so different?  Are we really more intelligent? (Maybe!)  Is there something wrong with our brain's social perception such that we think people perceive us as smarter than they are?  (Probably)  And finally, is there something missing, or maybe something extra, in our brain that tells us that we are this generation's muse, and as such, we must  proselytize to the masses, wake them from their ambivalence, and make them see the truth?  (Yes!)  And if you are with me on this last point... then you are just as demented as I am.  That said, we're all of us authors a little demented, and we must nurture those demons that inspire us, use them for the good of Humanity, and also recognize when they are leading us astray.

Good luck, fellow writers, and I'll give you an 11th piece of advice that McSweeney and Nissan neglected to mention... -- Don't give up!  Keep on writing.  In the words of Rainer Maria Rilke:

"Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance. - And if out of this turning-within, out of this immersion in your own world, poems come, then you will not think of asking anyone whether they are good or not. Nor will you try to interest magazines in these works: for you will see them as your dear natural possession, a piece of your life, a voice from it. A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it."

Response to Jim Berhle's "How to Write the Great American Novel"

"How to Write the Great American Novel"

Read the above article from theawl.com, then read my witty commentary below:

This article was my introduction to theawl.com, and I must say, it was love at first sight.  While I do have some complaints about it, which I'll get around to later, and theawl in general, which I might write about in a future post, I found the article to be entertaining and, for the most part, spot-on.

That said, complaint #1 is that the article is WAY TOO LONG.  I know, I know -- intellectuals don't complain about having to read too much, but come on!  Isn't the point of the internet to get quick, immediate news "at your fingertips" when you want it?  Well, yes, that is the point of internet news, but not the point of any creative form of writing.  Yes, I get it.  But an article's and article, and there's plenty of reasons an article is not a short story or a book, and I'm going to go ahead and say that one of those reasons is length.  So, while the article is enthralling and worth your time, don't feel bad if you skimmed over 60% of it like I did.  Who has the time to read all 4,726 words? (And yes, I really counted, or... Microsoft Word did.)

My second complaint is that the 11 suggestions could realistically be pared down to a meager five:

Berhle's tips that can go:

1.  Move out of Brooklyn.  Though I concede that there are far too many popular novels based in New York City, given that less than 3% of the population of the United States lives in NYC (pop. of NYC = 8,391,881 pop. of USA = 311,591,917: is my math right?), and I fully experience the feeling of exclusion when authors refer to specific streets and cafes in Manhattan as if all Americans should be familiar, I refuse to believe that this specificity is what is crippling certain authors from producing the next "Great American Novel."  Who knows, perhaps these writers' goal is simply to become the next "Great Author from Manhattan."  Additionally, if the purpose of literature is to explore universally experienced themes, does the location really matter?  Again, I will reiterate that no, I cannot relate to the actual location of a narrator who is walking down a dark alley in the bad side of Central Park as vividly as a native New Yorker, but we can all relate to the feeling of being in a scary situation.  Therefore, while I admit to Mr. Berhle that books about NYC are inundating our bookstores, I suggest that the reader appreciate the plot of the books for what they are and draw on universal experiences as much as possible.  If this is impossible for the unimaginative readers out there, choose your books more carefully.

3.  Stop writing in Starbucks.  I am of the mind that it does not matter where one creates as long as one creates, and I think we all agree that different people require different working environments.  For example, it behooves some folks to listen to soft music while they read or write; others, like myself, need utter silence for inspiration to strike.  Still some people (strange as they are), get lost in loud beats, lose track of the world around them, and only then can they compose.  Because I sympathize with those gentle souls who need silence to in order to create, it would be easy for me to say that this is the only road to true genius, but I am not so close-minded as to assert that there is only one recipe for creativity, and therefore, Berhle, I disagree that Starbucks is an impediment to creation.  Maybe some authors thrive on others' banality, and who are we to judge?

7.  We need more books written from the point of view of cats.  I will not even comment on this tip.  No, I will: Has anyone actually read A Dog's Purpose or anything written by Jon Katz?  If you haven't, go find A Dog's Purpose, read the first paragraph, and then imagine this were written from a cat's perspective.  The world does not need books written from the point of view of animals, period.  (Unless they are analogies about humanity, ie - Animal Farm, Life of Pi...)

Though I reject the above three writing suggestions, I embrace the majority of his ideas:

1.  Drop out of school.  Brilliant.  This one stays.  Yes, Jim, "If being a great writer could be taught, it would have been taught by now," but I don't agree that every colleague and professor is "trying to destroy you."  While, in my experience, that majority of people who study English will not write outside of their MA or Ph.D program, those who will break through the glass-window of publication really want to help you (if they think you're good enough).  And if not, they truly want to weed you out of the field in order to rid the world of future Suzanne Collins and Stephanie Meyers (and no, not out of jealousy, but because the writing is awful).

2.  Adultery is boring.  Again, right on, but I think this could be generalized into a broader category of "Make it Interesting," or, in the words of Ezra Pound, "Make it New!"  Though I don't believe that the best novel of the last few years is "Mad Men," mostly because I haven't seen most of it and do not equate TV with literature, I agree that the greatest love story (or story of adultery) has already been told.  (sidenote: I do not believe it to be "Romeo and Juliet," but rather Love in the Time of Cholera; what a beautiful story of patience and devotion which doesn't end in rash decisions to kill oneself due to imbalanced teenage hormones!)  Furthermore, I think "Stop Writing Books from the Points of View of Children" and "No more anti-heroes" could fall into this broadened "Make it New!" category.

3.  Stop wasting time on the internet!  Yes, yes, yes!  How many novels have been abandoned due to an unfocused author's short attention span when multi-tasking on the computer?  How many students' assignments have been neglected in lieu of twitter and facebook?  How many dollars have been embezzled from employers by employees who waste company time on social networks or "surfing the web" when they should be doing something else?  As a child of the 80's and 90's, I'm not certain what the office time-waster was before internet (Minesweeper?  Newspapers?  TV?), but, as an educator, I know that technology, in all it's glory, has impeded productivity as much as it has aided expedience.  That said, it would be hypocritical of me to pretend I want you to be writing your novel instead of reading my blog, especially if your novel's better than mine.  So, godspeed to all you internet Jedi's out there - waste away!

4.  Stop drinking and doing coke.  I only support this tip in so much as "just because you drink it doesn’t make you interesting," but I truly don't recall many contemporary writers who boast about binging escapades, not since Jack Kerouac.  Of course, as I mentioned earlier, I am a child of the 80's and 90's, so I never romped around with the Beats or the Lost Generation as Mr. Berhle seems to have (there are an uncanny number of seemingly personal references to remembering anecdotes about John Updike in Berhle's article, don't you think?  Or were those intended to mean, "I remember when I heard about John Updike doing the following?"  Regardless, I'm not so sure this specific authorial flaw is endemic to contemporary authors.

5.  Don't listen to anyone's opinion and Never Stop Writing mean the same thing to me, and they are both good advice.  They both call to mind Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet in which he counsels the insecure poet thusly:   

"You ask whether your poems are good. You send them to publishers; you compare them with other poems; you are disturbed when certain publishers reject your attempts... I suggest you give all that up. You are looking outward and, above all else, that you must not do now. No one can advise or help you, no one... in the most silent hour of your night, ask yourself this: Must I write? Dig deep into yourself for a true answer. And if it should ring its assent, if you can confidently meet this serious question with a simple, “I must,” then build your life upon it. It has become your necessity."

So, I saved this tip for last and say to you: "Reader, if you strive to write the next great American novel, keep writing, but only do so if writing is the only thing that keeps you going day to day.  Do not contribute banal, second-rate discourse with the sole purpose of recognition, fame, or legacy.  As a writer, it is not for you to decide the fecundity of your work, but it is rather your job to hone your words so they may go forth and prosper."

Best of luck to you, writers, in producing the next "Great American Novel," if that is, indeed, your goal.  And here I leave you, 3148 words fewer than Berhle, but too long, nonetheless.  Check in again to read a future blog which will review Berhle's Valentine's Day blog, "How to Write a Love Poem."

The Gift

"What is it?" he asked, as he turned it over in his hands.

"A gift," she responded dryly.

"Well, what's it supposed to be?"

"Hell if I know.  You know how he is, always sending me strange widgets that make him think of me.  He probably found it at a garage sale somewhere."

"I don't know, it seems like there's got to be some way to..." (turns it over in his hands) "I just feel like I could open it if I could only -- There!"

(silence - both stare)

"Oh," she takes it from him and turns it thoughtfully in her palm.  "I still don't really know what it's supposed to be.  I mean, a locket of some kind?"

"I've never seen a locket that... looks like that.  It's kind of creepy."

"I think it says something on the back." (scrapes at the object with her nail)  "K.E.P."

"Hmm... did he send a note or anything?"

"No, just that dusty box and some old newspaper.  I wonder if it has any sentimental value or is just some trinket he found."

"You should ask."

"I doubt he'll even remember sending it.  He's getting worse and worse.  I was just over there yesterday and I had to tell him twice who I was.  It's sad... we'll be in the middle of talking and he'll stop mid-sentence.  I always know when it's going to happen because his eyes get really small.  He looks around like something's going to trigger a memory, and then he uses that voice I'm not used to hearing, that meager voice he used to use in the hospital when the doctor was talking to him." (Sigh.)  "I never know what to do.  I'm sure he appreciates the company, but... it's hard to be there.  Sometimes I feel like I make it worse."  (Places locket back in box and then into a drawer with similar-sized boxes).

"Why do you hang on to all those if you don't even know what they are?"