They come to my classroom to learn,
but their faces, their brashness
show their fears
as they cry out, “teach me!” And
so,
we write, and write some more,
their words
tentative on the page, ‘till they
find the right
words, the real words they need to
say, words to tell
their own stories, not the canon so
removed
from them, not the grammar I
studied, and their parents,
not a form to fill in, to check the
boxes, saying nothing,
but instead, pouring themselves
onto the page, their abuses
by the hands that love them, gave
them birth,
the expectations of others not
their own,
their own fears and pains, their
honest selves,
their self-destruction at their own
hands, taking
their own lives, ending it, or
leaving just a shell
sitting at a desk, pen poised over
a sheet of paper
as blank as they feel, waiting for
someone else to fill it in,
to tell them what to write to get a
grade, a “good grade,”
enough to get them through, get
them out, get them
where they want to be, wherever
they are bound, now.
And so we write some more, work at
it, write it
again, for real, the dreams and the
goals to become
a nurse, a doctor, an athlete
scoring points, a builder,
designer, creator, to sing, to
dance, to run and jump, to fly,
to be happy, rich, content, real,
to do what they need to do,
to be what they need to be, writing
what it feels like to be them,
young and ready and wanting more,
confronting themselves
in a world that cries out for them,
cries out to them, yet stops
them, disavows them, that would
mold them into the world’s form,
boxes checked, not their own, but they
are ready, now, and afraid,
aware and helpless, wanting change
but unsure how, unsure when,
unsure and afraid. And so we write,
again and again, until we get it
right, ‘till we see ourselves on
the page, perfectly imperfect,
accepting what we find there as ourselves,
for who else is there, really;
we know only that we are, that we
can, perhaps that we will,
and so we write, and keep on writing, writing our lives, beginning to learn.
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