Reasons to believe

1. I posted some photos online from the high school poetry workshop I taught last summer, which continues to burn in my mind. I’m glad that I waited to post the photos until the cascade of other photos from the students were through, until they were well into their semesters at school, and maybe had forgotten some of the smaller moments. When I did this, T. posted a comment, to the effect of  “I’m literally in tears,” how much he missed everybody, and how “professional” he thought the class was compared some other folks he’s working with now. Never expected that. So amazed to know that his memory of how the group dynamic turned out is so rosy. It really did turn out pretty great at the end–the kids got past their differences and learned to work in spite of them. But woooooooo…we had our moments.
2. A day or two later, A. texted me to thank us for teaching the class, and to let me know that he had won a contest at some youth arts conference in Wisconsin with one of the poems that he’d written in our program over the summer.
3. Then T. sent me a message: I still think about u. U r the sun exploding in my soul. I ment to thank u b cuz I’m realizing how much of not only a better poet but person u molded me to b. Keep ur head up and wash your hair. (He’s referencing a line from “All She Wrote” by Harryette Mullen–”Wash your wet hair?”, a poem we read over the summer).
4. E. and I (as well as A. and I) have been braiding poetry back and forth, at their request, since the workshop ended. E. just asked if I would record some of the poems with him for his new album. I also found out that he started poetry braids with A., and another classmate of his.
5. I saw E. perform the other night, and he said, “Thanks for keeping me writing!” I–kind of flabbergasted–said, “No, thanks for keeping me writing!” He said that he misses poetry and hasn’t been getting enough.

It just never occurred to me what a lasting effect this workshop would have on the kids, kind of a ripple effect of new collaborations, new work, and relationships that are ongoing. I’m thankful that I get a little snapshot from them every once in a while of what’s going on (who’s been accepted to what college, who’s working on a student newspaper, who’s performing…). It isn’t often that, as a teacher, I get to see what my kids are like in the time after I’ve worked with them, and to even imagine whether the work has had any impact on them or not. I don’t flatter myself that I’ve played a vital part–the students I worked with last summer are really talented, full of initiative, and by and large extremely hard-working–they’ll find opportunities regardless. But just hearing from them and getting the thanks, knowing that they’re doing well, encourages me in the middle of what has been a long and challenging fall…the kids I have right now are fabulous, but there are so many of them. The poems are amazing, but I only have 40 minutes a pop, and I see about 180+ kids at each of the two schools where I’m a poet-in-residence. Also I have a lot of after-school work at the moment, which has its plusses, but, quite frankly, much of the time can be an uphill battle in terms of working with the schools and getting kids in the door. In-school work is still probably one of my favorite places to be, because I know I have an impact, I have a captive audience, and I can reach a lot of kids.

I’m just glad to know it matters.

How can I put into words

that you’ll understand?

I’ve been trying to explain the last few days of this class, people ask me about it, and like, “Oh yeah, how

was that?”

And it’s like they’re asking about a semester abroad, like asking about one’s semester in Senegal, in Russia

or Spain or Beijing, and they ask, and the next moment

the moment when I start to speak, their eyes frost over, float overhead

and it only takes three or four words to do it. What is the story,

what are the three or four words that will keep your eyes on mine,

that will explain some of the beauty of these twenty faces,

that will catch some of the shine of the moment when Alex said to me, ““It was so much fun,”

when we were saying goodbye and I don’t remember what everybody said

and it doesn’t matter because it wouldn’t sound like anything anyway

“DON’T CRY, RACH!”

they catcalled down the street

for about half a block

to make me laugh as I cried into Ben’s arm

for this summer that I can’t articulate to you

Fourth-graders, dude.

Fourth-graders. That’s who I’m going to be interviewing with next week. Or auditioning with, rather. They’re turning me loose on a classroom of fourth-graders for 40 minutes to see what I can do.

Fuck.

gguh.

Brain. Shutting. Down.

Is there anyone out there who’s good with Publisher who wants to come help me finish my poetry books? During business hours, roughly anyway?

Please?

blrrggggh…

Some other people called, too…

They called on Thursday, in between my groups, almost causing me to lose my shit for the rest of the day. Remember the interview I thought I bombed? Yeah, I guess they want me to come in for a SECOND INTERVIEW.

Apparently they’re going to have me plan something to do with one of their groups of kids. They told me the name of the school, but I was so queasy I don’t remember which one. I should get more details sometime soon.

Something occurs to me: they mostly work with elementary and middle school populations. Hmm. This…huh. Yeah. This is going to be illuminating.

anyone tired of hearing about my life yet?

Too bad!

From an e-mail to my friend Ryan in which he asked me, simply, “How’s life in Chicago?” That’s what you get for asking…

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“Good…okay. I applied for a job at this place called Urban Gateways (www.urbangateways.org), and much to my surprise, actually got an interview. I knew my application fucking ROCKED but I just didn’t think I was cool enough. They haven’t called me back yet, though. I sorta felt like I bombed, even though my whole BODY was like screaming out, ‘CAN’T YOU SEE HOW PERFECT I AM FOR THIS?! WE ARE SOUL MATES!!’ But as Kelsey said, ‘This job is so not ready for a Rachel.’ God bless her. I am looking for other things. Every time I see a plane flying overhead I involuntarily rise onto my tiptoes. I write sometimes, but I often go out salsa dancing when I should be writing…or sleeping. I don’t sleep enough. I feel guilty way too often, especially for a Protestant. I feel like something really great is about to happen…or something really scary, that will later become something really great. I’ve gone to a couple really really cool poetry event things lately. I think I’m gonna do more of that. I meet strangers and instantly captivate them with the way I laugh at all their jokes and my confessional style. Last Thursday, one of those strangers drew a box around me and said, ‘This is a no-bullshit zone.’ I meet strangers wherever I go.”

really, I’m fine.

In case ya’ll are worried or something after my “cryptic” (E.Z.’s word) posting, here’s the thing: I had a job interview the other day that I didn’t feel too great about. My current job does not know that I’m seeking employ elsewhere (So keep your traps shut! You never know who you’re talking to.) The situation is analagous to (Ev, pay attention) the feeling I get when I break a plate: it is as if every plate (glass, bowl, casserole) I have ever broken is breaking at the same time. It brings sharply into focus all reasons why the plate was broken, all preventative measures that should’ve been taken, all the whys and hows of it, all the deep personal flaws that brought me to this point, all the money that I’ve spent replacing dishes and glasses. It pours lime juice into paper cuts. It’s about the interview, but it’s also about the fact that I’m even here. Read on: it’s my e-mail response to E.Z. about the thing.

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Yeah. Eh. I think I might’ve bombed. I was late for one thing…I called and stuff, because I messed up my route and then got lost, and was able to anticipate the fact that I was going to be late and let them know well ahead of time, but STILL. That’s yo INTERVIEW, GURRRL. You bet’ take a CAB. (This is my inner life coach. She is African-American, for some reason.)

Then the interview itself seemed sorta lackluster…like they were antsy, or not really focusing…I couldn’t quite put my finger on it…maybe it was because it was the last interview of the day, maybe they were tired, maybe they are shy and hate doing interviews, OR maybe they were mad that I was late and/or they knew in the first two minutes of talking to me that I was the wrong person for the job, and so they just had to go through the motions. I TOTALLY feel like I vibe with their way of doing things, being there made me ache for this job even more…[new realization: I also want everyone to be in love with me. Everyone. I mean, not really a new realization, but new as it pertains to this situation...]

Not just for this job, but for a change. For the next step…there is a new step in my life that is about to be born, and I’m just so fucking antsy for it to get going already. Something! It could be going abroad, but that’s going to take so long to get going…maybe I should focus more energy on that–God knows that’s going to be a shitload of work–and infusing myself into the writing community in Chicago while I’m here. Then just apply for jobs when I can, and then if I don’t find something new, maybe it won’t feel like my life is spinning its wheels so much. Ay, Eric, yo no se. I just know I need to move on SOMETHING. Step out on a limb a li’l bit. Step out on faith.

My objective and yours

I recently revised my resume. It now fits on two pages and is much easier to read! And my objective makes much more sense, especially for the job I just applied for!

I would like you to post a comment with the objective from your resume, if you have one. And if you tend to customize your objective based on the job you’re applying for (smarty pantses that you are), even better; post a couple.

I can’t remember mine off the top of my head right now. It came to me all in a flash on Monday, a burst of resumeic inspiration! Hopefully I’ll still think it’s good when I look at my resume when I get home. I’ll add it to this entry then…

Okay, here I am. It is now the future!

“To engage with youth in arts-based community work while pursuing my own artistic development.”

(I applied for a job as a teaching artist, or artist-in-residence, so they kind of expect you to have your own art life. Which is kind of the idea. Of me changing jobs, I mean. One of many reasons. Many many.)

Here’s my old one:

“To contribute to the successful operation of a meaningful service-oriented company or organization through my excellent writing, speaking, and interpersonal skills, while utilizing my creativity and the benefits of my life experiences.”

(UGH. Bo-ring. And long as hell.)

Okay, I have another idea! Here we go…

Objective:

“To have less than 40 hours per week committed to a ‘job,’ (in fact, I’d prefer not to have just one job at all, if possible; I’d really like to divide my time between community work, writing/publishing, and other kinds of work and study–sort of a hybrid lifestyle), but to make around the same amount of money, to write every day, to go for walks, see my husband more, to cook dinner more often, OOH OOH AND to keep working on my Spanish, and thus take extended trips abroad every so often. Kids? Um, I don’t know…well, yeah!…yeah, maybe. I don’t know. Sure, yeah. I’d love to have kids. I mean, just not right this minute.”

What do you think?

Whoa.

Found this in the personal folder on my computer at work and tweaked it a little then posted it, a little rant or journal thing I wrote about one of the young women I work with. Must be from about six months ago, when she first got pregnant with this baby; she’s gonna be due real soon now. She graduated two years ago, but I still see her from time to time at this alumnae group that we have.

For N, pregnant with her fourth child

You deserve a man who will put on a goddamn condom.

You deserve a man who, if he is so dead set against wearing a goddamn condom,
so needful of the feel of birth canal against penis skin, will pay the price of monogamy
and birth control pills.

You deserve a friend who will tell you this.

You deserve a man who will not spend his kids’ money on another woman. You deserve a man who will not stick his penis in both you and her.

You deserve a life that would’ve prepared you better for this, a childhood that would’ve grown you into someone better prepared, to resist, to live alone, to find someone better.

You did not deserve to be pried open against your will and impregnated at 14. You deserve sex of your choosing. Your first son also deserves a better father than him.

prayer

Okay, so the internet is a wild and wondrous place. I wrote this a couple days ago, and somehow accidentally navigated away from the page, and, with a little high-pitched animal sound, realized I had lost it. Looked around, tried to get it back, to no avail. Gone. Gone gone.

So, today, one minute ago, actually, I go to update my journal, and what should appear but the journal I wrote a couple days ago…but not in the form I left it. It was a feedback loop of my journal ten times or so, messed up as hell, as well as a first draft of the same journal (much longer and more clichéd and self-aggrandizing) long since deleted. Weird, dudes. So here it is.

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I’m having a hard time even asking for what I need. I’m not even sure what I’m asking for, really. It takes so much time to wade through the guilts, like different-colored wires, to wind them up secure them with velcro tapes and sort them in their proper boxes. I’m having a hard time even asking.

I guess the main thing is that I feel trapped, which is the worst lie, and that I feel like I can never go anywhere else, and I’m starting to even feel that if I stay that my welcome and my ruse will quickly wear out.

I don’t know where to begin. I’m so tired of feeling bad for not being happy where I’m at. It’s a damn sinking ship, and I’m tired of hanging on.

I know what you’re doing. I just don’t know what it looks like, and I’m so scared, I can’t even tell you, and there’s one of those guilts again.

Okay, I’m going to try and ask, and I’m going to try and not feel bad while I do it, and I’m going to try and do it without crying:
will you help me? Will you help me build a life where I can write a little and do some community work a little and not feel so trapped? Will you bring me people to help me? Will you help me to be braver? Will you show me the path? Will you give me the strength to work, to write my best and work my best regardless, and to take my paths when I see them?

I think feel a little better now. Thanks.

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